


Sirius Black & The Six

by BellaBabe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Marauders, Marauders Rock Band AU, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25519213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaBabe/pseuds/BellaBabe
Summary: “Remus Lupin, frontman for The Six.” Sirius takes a drag off his cigarette, looking up at the dense evening sky. “You know, I asked around about you. You’re quite the mystery.”Remus shrugs. “Not much for the spotlight.”“Right,” Sirius drawls, “I bet you’re also not much for the rock ‘n roll perks.”Remus tenses, sparing Sirius a scathing glare. “I’m sober now.”Sirius quirks an eyebrow in disbelief. Remus scowls, unwilling to explain himself and scared that maybe, just maybe, the disbelief is warranted.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 82
Kudos: 109





	1. Imploding

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid.
> 
> Trigger warnings: substance abuse, intimate partner violence and mentions of past child abuse 
> 
> Disclaimer: I have never personally experienced addiction and while I am careful not to glorify or make light of substance abuse some aspects of this story may not be realistic or accurate. Please leave me a comment if you feel I have portrayed something unjustly or incorrectly. 
> 
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5tKuifE8eZXSvYDTszm5K2

_**March 15th, 1981** _

Leeds is bearing the brunt of the fading winter, windswept and gloomy even in mid March. Remus blinks up at the overcast sky as he stumbles out of the tour bus. Mary has her arm wrapped around his bicep, giggling and squinting into the early evening. 

“Call me when you’re in town again.” She presses a wet kiss to his cheek.

Remus nods mutely and fishes his cigarettes out of his back pocket. James is leaning against the accompanying tour bus, trading barbs with Gideon. The t-shirt Remus is wearing sticks to his back with sweat despite the cold. Blood rushes to his cheeks and his hands are clammy. 

“Alright?” James asks. Remus waves him off. 

“Listen to this.” Frank calls as he clambers aboard the bus. 

Frank strums his guitar, his ministrations releasing a smattering of rough chords. 

“Enough, mate.” Remus grimaces and swipes the guitar from his grasp. “Lucky we don’t pay you to write.”

Frank scowls, all red rimmed eyes. Three neat strips of blow stare up at Remus from the coffee table. Remus grins and bends over to snort them languidly, batting away Frank’s half-hearted attempts to stop him. Remus swipes at his nose and leans back against the upholstery, staring up the ceiling and strumming the borrowed guitar. 

That night Remus’ thumbs at his frayed guitar strap, heart in his throat. James screams something unintelligible in his ear before rushing off, hair blue-black under the stage lights. Remus meanders onto the stage after him, approaching the microphone and smiling sweetly at the crowd. 

“We’re The Six.” Remus says lowly. 

Screeching and a slew of inappropriate suggestions greet his words. Remus laughs and motions at the rest of the band. His movements feel sluggish, as if wading through water. 

James nods encouragingly from the drum set and Dorcas gives a two-fingered salute. Gideon covers his microphone to mock Frank, slapping him upside the head good naturedly. Marlene tries to coax the crowd louder, bangles clinking together as she sways. Remus shakes his head at their antics and launches into the first number of their set. 

He sings but he can’t feel his lips.

–

Two weeks later Remus is running through his usual spiel, generic pleasantries falling from his lips without a second thought. He’s running his mouth off a bit which James doesn’t appreciate if the furrow between his brows is any indication. The crowd hardly notices, meeting every pause with a wall of screams. Remus smiles bashfully, eyes unfocused. 

Midway through the chorus of 'Evangelist' Frank misses a cue and Remus laughs into the microphone, losing the thread of the song. Marlene saves them with a bass line and a bubble gum smack _get it together boys_. Remus can feel the pinprick of James’ gaze. 

James presses a water bottle into his palm after the set. 

“Remus.” James hisses in warning.

“Relax, Jamie.” Remus murmurs even as he obediently drinks from the bottle, throat suddenly tight with thirst. 

James shakes his head but leaves Remus backstage. Marlene saddles up to him, stealing the cigarette from his fingertips. 

“He just worries. We all do.” Marlene takes a drag and avoids his eyes, to lessen the accusation no doubt. 

“I’m fine, Marls. I just need something to take the edge off, you know how I get.” Remus shrugs. “Nerves and all.”

Marlene gives a noncommittal hum. She doesn’t believe him. 

“Don’t fuck this up for us.” She claps him on the shoulder and pushes away from the wall. 

Remus nods sagely. He takes a heavy gulp from the water bottle, groping around in his pockets. He smiles when his hand finds purchase on the plastic baggy. Nerves and all that rot.

–

The tour bus is a disjointed mess of colours. Someone has their hand on Remus' thigh. Warm, steady, violating. Remus' head lolls against the couch and he feels the heady sensation of a warm mouth on his. Later, when the sky is a smouldering red and the vibrancy has been leached from his surroundings, he escapes outside with his guitar. 

Someone has left lawn chairs on the asphalt, bottles strewn underfoot. Remus picks up a half-full bottle of rum and sips it languidly. Remus begins with 'Evangelist' the way he should have played it that night. It sounds too soft without the others, too much like Remus had felt writing it. He plays 'Needling' next, a song he had written with James while practically still in their graduation gowns. 

Remus looks up. James exits the tour bus he shares with Frank and Gideon. He looks far off, preoccupied, probably with thoughts of Lily. Sometime after high school James’ seduction tactics had become so embarrassing Lily had taken pity on him, a one time date offer contingent on him keeping his hands to himself. They had been together ever since. 

Lily is an upright kind of girl, she goes to university in Manchester and only drinks on weekends. She’s nice enough but always turns her nose up at the band’s antics. Remus couldn’t imagine her lasting long as a rockstar’s girlfriend, though James isn’t prone to the sort of antics Lily doesn’t approve of anyway.

James meanders over cautiously, eyeing the bottle in Remus’ hand. Remus hands it to him and James takes a long pull, keeping a firm grip on it. Remus smothers an eye roll, he could get his hands on worse things within spitting distance.

“Anything new?” James asks as he takes the seat beside Remus, nodding towards the guitar. Remus raises an eyebrow. 

“You know if you–” James waves at him vaguely. _Cleaned up. Stayed sober. Got your fucking shit together._

“Welcome to rock’n roll.” Remus drawls but there’s a touch of knowing self-deprecation to it. 

James scrutinizes Remus. Growing up together on the outskirts of Oxfordshire had given James an unfair advantage when it came to Remus’ tells, something Remus was regretting more and more recently. Remus ducks his head to fiddle with the chords. 

Remus’ mother had taught at the secondary school and impressed on him the power of words. She had meant to instill in him an appreciation for literary classics but Remus had always appreciated words more when they were accompanied with music. Remus had been destined for a life of amber tea and tweed. Yet here he was, drinking discarded liquor, body twinging with comedown aches and with a handful of notes and no words on the tip of his tongue. 

“Remus, what about–”

Remus hums softly, plucking at the strings absentmindedly. James scrubs a hand over his face, mouth pinched in frustration. 

_

Remus is flushed with laughter as James regales the room with their growing up in Henley-on-Thames. It wasn’t something they dwelled on if they could help it, their shared childhood. The last few years had been a desperate scramble to make themselves known in London, shedding their small town upbringing for bigger things. Better things, Remus thinks guiltily. 

James speaks of their youthful indiscretions as if they were some great misadventures instead of the result of restless boredom. James had been set to inherit a three-tiered cream coloured estate and Remus had been set to inherit his cousin Connor’s bike, if he was lucky. 

James would beg Remus to skive off class to loiter behind the grocers. They would light up cigarettes, fingers shaking, and cough around lungfuls of smoke. James would tap a staccato rhythm on the brick and Remus would hum under his breath. They liked to pretend they would soon own the world. Well, Remus pretended. James made plans. 

“This nun was a right cunt too.” James was saying around a cigarette, nodding as someone passed him a light. 

Remus knows where this story is heading now. He remembers that afternoon vividly. James’ feet swinging over the Thames, watching the boats go by as he ate a packet of crisps, feeding the ducks absentmindedly. Remus pacing furiously behind him, righteous indignation at having his interpretation of _The Great Gatsby_ dismissed. 

“Moony here, you wouldn’t believe it, but this man was a prefect.” James slings an arm across his shoulders. 

Remus gives the group a lazy smile. James is choosing to omit that he himself happened to be Head Boy. 

“Anyway, Moony gets it into his head that she doesn’t deserve to teach English lit.” 

Remus hopes the alcohol hides his flushed face. Only three years had passed since Remus had slipped a coffee stained copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ into a duffle bag and set off for London, James at his elbow. He can’t even remember a time when he could muster up that kind of indignation over schoolyard angst.

“So we sneak into her garden after dark and we–” James starts laughing uproariously. 

Gideon rolls his eyes, he’s already heard this one. Dorcas loses interest and wanders off, picking her way through the assembled guests in search of that distasteful peppermint schnapps she likes. The rest of the room is losing interest, bleary eyes searching for some other form of entertainment. James hardly notices, too occupied with trying to get a handle on his laughter. 

“We trimmed her hedges in the shape of a knob.” James finally gets out. Frank raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. 

And spray painted it bright green, like the light at the end of the dock. Well, in this case the knob at the end of the garden. Remus and James share a conspiratorial look.

“Her yappy dog bit Remus so hard he had to get stitches.”

This receives a smattering of laughter. 

“It was three stitches.” Remus grumbles.

“The thing tore your trousers right off.” James guffaws loudly, wiping tears from his eyes. 

Remus groans and covers his face with his hands. “Had to run ten blocks in my underpants.” 

“Bit shy back then, Remus dear?” Marlene drawls, ruffling his hair. Remus scowls and bats her hands aways. 

“Wish he still was.” Dorcas adds, taking a hearty sip from the peppermint schnapps.

“Fuck off.” Remus takes a drag from the joint to hide his flush. 

–

Remus peels his t-shirt off swiftly, his hair is glued to his forehead with sweat. He leaves the cacophony of desperate yells and cheers behind as he weaves backstage. Remus uses the t-shirt to dab at his brow, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.

Gideon grabs his forearm. “Room 213.”

Remus nods in acknowledgement, gaze focused on the blurred exit sign. Remus stumbles outside and takes great gulps of air, unease crawling up his spine. His skin prickles but he doesn’t feel the cold. He leans against the brick and lights up a cigarette, hands shaking and nose running. 

Remus stares up at the hotel in bemusement, wonders how he managed to navigate eight blocks of downtown Birmingham when all he can focus on is the thrumming of his own heartbeat. He doesn’t knock, pushing his way into the room to find Gideon sprawled shirtless on the still made bed. Remus grins before reaching for him, hands frantically seeking warmth. 

After Remus opens every window and chain smokes into the smudged skyline he thinks about the last time he went back to Henley-on-Thames. He thinks of his childhood home, the sloped roof and teetering fence, the weeds curling around the cobbled walkway. He thinks of being fourteen and invincible, believing that happiness could be found in the weight of a guitar.

He wonders when that stopped being enough. Was it on that train to London? White knuckling his duffle bag and hungry for success. Or maybe it was that first show at the Windmill? When the crowd had pressed close to the stage, eager for more, for anything they would give them. 

Early morning light bathes Gideon’s prone form in pink hues. Remus’ throat tightens with guilt. He opens the minibar and uncaps a bite sized bottle of vodka. 

–

Remus threads his hands through auburn hair, biting back a moan. He scrunches his brow in confusion when Dorcas’ voice rises, Marlene’s shouts closely following. Remus blearily blinks his eyes open, just enough to see a flash of pink hair and the door slamming shut abruptly. 

“Fuck.” Remus curses.

“Yah, you like that?” The girl on her knees murmurs as she takes a breath, looking up through her lashes. 

“Get out.” Remus snaps, scrambling for his trousers. He frantically slides his t-shirt over his head and threads his hands through his hair. Marlene and Dorcas are studiously avoiding his gaze as he exits the bus.

Dora is standing a few feet from the tour bus. Her hands are balled into fists, chipped purple nail polish digging into flesh. She stares at him unwaveringly, tears spill over her cheeks but she makes no move to be rid of them. She juts her lip out stubbornly. 

“You have until July 12th.” Dora’s breath hitches and she presses her palm to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Remus’ eyes dart to the swell of her stomach, partially exposed by a too small Sex Pistols t-shirt.

“The drugs, the–” Dora breaks off, looks away from Remus. “After July 12th you clean up.”

Dora cradles a hand over her growing stomach. A hot flush of shame licks its way up Remus’ face, having nothing to do with the erratic drug fueled thump of his heart. He nods even as his head begins to pound.

Remus takes a step towards her but Dora throws her hands up. “Don’t.” 

“Please, just–” Dora sobs out. “Don’t.”

Dora lowers her eyes and turns away. Marlene and Dorcas surround her quickly, ushering her away. Remus makes quick work of the space back to the tour bus, locking the door behind him. His skin feels tight, sweat beads on the back of his neck. He rummages around for the bourbon he knows Marlene has stashed. 

Later, the door splinters open and James crouches in front of him. Remus peers up at James through half-lidded eyes, smiling serenely as he curls his fists into the carpet. James lies down beside him, frowning at him solemnly.

–

Remus beams at the crowd, a mass of dark writhing bodies. He squints as the glare of the stage lights glints off of James’ cymbals. Remus licks sweat off his upper lip, smears his clammy hands on his jeans. The chords slip clumsily beneath his fingers.

It’s been three nights since Dora left for London again. His bandmates have begun to whisper behind his back. Dora’s ultimatum becomes their mantra, the date whispered between sets like a prayer. Marlene averts her eyes when Remus pulls aside the petite stage tech and Frank swallows audibly when he tells Remus he’s out of blow. Gideon studiously avoids his gaze, brushing off wandering hands with a guilty furrow of his brow. 

Two weeks later Frank finds him with a needle lodged in his arm. Remus startles awake drowsily, blinking up at his bandmates. Dorcas has his head cradled in her lap, cloth dabbing at his sticky forehead. 

Remus stares up at their pinched expressions, giving them a watery grin. “Your faces are gonna freeze like that.” 

James curses and Remus can hear the hotel room door click shut behind him. Remus closes his eyes, body aching and demanding sleep. Dorcas mutters something disparaging under her breath. 

“He’s not going to make it to July 12th.” Gideon hisses none too quietly. 

**–**

Remus shouts into the microphone, drawing on the desperate surge of bodies pressing against the stage. He laughs as he steps away from the microphone, sharing a proud smile with Marlene to his left. They come off stage in a tumble of bodies, eager for the soothing backstage chaos. Frank and Gideon attempt to rouse the crowd one last time. Remus' ears are still ringing, his heartbeat erratic and his mouth is dry. 

“The baby’s coming.” James shouts in his ear. 

Remus stops, stares unseeingly at James. 

“What?” He breathes. 

“Tonks is in labour.” 

James grips his forearm hard, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to jolt Remus. 

“Jamie.” Remus pleads. “I can’t.”

James’ expression tightens, his smile souring quickly. 

“For fuck’s sake–” James bites out. 

“I’m high.” Remus grabs onto James. “I’m fucking high as shit. I can’t see my kid like this. I can’t–” 

James face softens, understanding clouding his expression. 

“Okay.” James steers him away from the stage, away from the throng of roadies and technicians. “You’re okay.”

Remus takes in large pulling gasps, skin feeling too tight, too hot. 

“Fuck.” Remus is shaking with the enormity of this moment. 

James stares at him unwaveringly. 

“I need to get clean. I can’t see the kid until I’m clean.” Remus is blabbering, frantically threading his hands through his hair. “Promise me, Jamie. You have to make sure I–”

Remus presses a fist to his mouth, chokes up. Dora is having his baby. Alone. He’s thirty miles away, thrumming with cocaine and uppers and whiskey. Shame crawls its way up his neck, his throat tightens with guilt. He turns to James, frantically clutches at him, desperation warring with fear.

“I can’t. I can’t go to them until I’m clean.” 

**–**

Sirius wakes up disgruntled, hair tousled and last night’s eyeliner still smudged under his eyes. Rodolphus is snoring softly next to him. Sirius glares at the duvet bunched around the man’s waist, god damn music producers can never let you have anything. 

Sirius stumbles towards the kitchen intent on a cup of coffee. It’s already early evening, the muted glow of London’s skyline visible from the flat’s narrow windows. He pours himself a cup, using up the rest of the coffee roast just to spite Rodolphus. Sirius grimaces at the cigarettes littering the counter, the turned over glasses and sticky puddles under the island.

Sirius dresses hastily, paying Rodolphus no mind as he bangs open drawers and crawls under the bed for his rattiest pair of jeans. Some combination of pills has collected among his keys, Sirius pops two and shuts the front door behind him. London wafts over him, piss and taunts and brick. He grins as he hefts his guitar case higher. He would never get sick of this. The grit of early mornings, the push of eager pedestrians and the unrelenting fog which snakes between every building. 

Sirius grew up on goose eggs, three hundred count Egyptian cotton sheets and Bach. Sirius’ parents, bless their cold unbeating hearts, live not twenty minutes from him. He hasn’t seen them in four years, not since he’d come home with black ink marring his forearm and a joint between his lips.

At fourteen Sirius had already been beautiful. Unruly dark tresses framing a face still rounded with youth. A faced that beguiled men far too old and charmed bouncers into letting him into clubs well before his time. It allowed him to crash on couches and behind bars, in stockrooms and in studio apartments. At fourteen Sirius had already learned all the ways in which a pretty face was useful in this world. And all the ways in which it was not. The trouble that could be found in the groping, searching hands of an unruly patron. The cloying breath of whispered pleasantries, promises of riches which never came to fruition. The unspoken but always expected reward for helping the downtrodden.

By fifteen Sirius had known every back entrance to every music venue London had to offer. He knew what drinks to order and which bands would let you sit backstage if you agreed to help with the equipment. He knew what labels were searching and which producers were on a lucky streak. Sirius had experienced every high before he was sixteen. By seventeen Sirius had dated around, flitting from lead singers to drummers, to washed up managers and dealers. Very little mattered to Sirius apart from having a good time, and no one was more fun than someone trying to navigate the London music scene. 

Sirius darts under The Hog’s Head awning, combing the water out of his hair and pushing the door open. The bar is modestly packed, young patrons darting from table to table and chatting with one another. There’s a gaggle of girls near the front who press closer when they see Sirius. Sirius flashes them his aristocrat’s smile, two parts cockiness and one part boredom. The prettiest of them, a dishwater blonde with skinny wrists, crosses her legs suggestively. 

Sirius muffles a snort. Aberforth nods at Sirius and motions towards the stage. That’s all the invitation that Sirius needs. 

After Sirius bounds off the stage and motions for Aberforth to pour him a shot. Aberforth readily prepares a tequila and lime wedge as per Sirius’ post performance tradition. Not very rock’n’roll but a tradition nonetheless. 

“Sirius Black?” A portly man with thinning sandy brown hair sidles up to Sirius. 

Sirius narrows his eyes. “That’s me.”

“You’re talented.” The man offers as he orders a whiskey. “Too good for dive bars like this.”

Sirius smiles, eyeing the man up carefully. He’s far too old for this type of establishment, a good decade past the youngest person in the bar.

“I have a record out.” Sirius admits sheepishly. It's not the record he had wanted to make but it's a record nonetheless. 

“I know.” The man sips his whiskey with a grimace, staring at the glass in his hand with a frown. 

“Peter Pettigrew.” He says, slicking back a meagre outcropping of sandy hair. “I represent The Six.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows, _good band_. They’d crashed into fame last year with a single, something with religious connotations. Torn out of complete oblivion, school chums turned rockstars from what Sirius can remember. Their tour had been abruptly cut short by the lead singer's stint in rehab. Not uncommon that.

“We’re looking for some help on an upcoming single."

Sirius tries to mask his surprise. The Six was already an eclectic mix of musicians with too many guitarists to their name. Though Sirius admired the sultry and gritty undertone of their first album, the one that had launched six kids from humble beginnings to stardom. 

Peter tilts his head. “Interested?”

Sirius grins.   
  
  



	2. Rubble

_**October 26th, 1981** _

“Who’s off?” James yells. 

Frank and Gideon screech to a halt and the small recording studio erupts in a cacophony of voices and accusatory finger wagging. 

“Oi!” Remus cuts through the noise and waves at Dorcas. “You’re coming in too fast on the chorus.” 

Dorcas rolls her eyes but obediently rearranges her fingers against the strings. Remus can see blisters forming, can feel them on his own fingers. Remus knows he’s running them a little ragged but with a derailed tour behind them he isn’t keen to make any further mistakes. 

“Again.” Remus barks as he positions himself at the microphone. 

Remus can see his bandmates exchange nervous glances. He ignores them, focusing on the chords. They finish rehearsal after a grueling three hours. The pads of his fingers are numb and James stretches his arms above his head with a grimace. 

James hands Remus a water bottle and claps him on the back.

“We’re back.”

Remus shakes his head. “Almost.”

Remus exits the recording studio and slouches in one of the tacky armchairs littered outside, garage sale rejects which have accumulated throughout the years. Remus takes a handful of calming breaths, focusing on the rise and fall of his diaphragm. He cradles his head in his hands, breathes through the crawling under his skin, the craving for something with which to make life more bearable. Only four months sober and Remus’ longing for a high is only ever moments away, one craving subverted only to be replaced by another. 

Remus had been standing in the lobby of a rehab clinic when his son had come into this world. James refusing to relinquish his hold on Remus’ even when he had turned shifty and nervous. Remus had been steered into a dormitory style hospital room, searched and been made to relinquish any personal effects while Dora had cradled their newborn son. 

That first phone call with Dora, her exhaustion bleeding through the line, her hesitation but also profound elation as the baby wailed in the background had pushed Remus to finally talk to the mandated therapist. It had happened haltingly, in long pauses and short bursts but three months later Remus had been released, sobriety in tact. He had walked out of the clinic, fuller in the face and heavy in the heart, to find James parked outside waiting for Remus with his feet propped up on the dash.

The rest of the band trails out of the studio, collecting on the assorted chairs and sofas. Marlene sits at his feet and bemoans her aching back with a pointed glance. 

Peter ducks his head into the room. “All finished?”

They all nod aggressively. Remus ducks his head sheepishly.

Peter steps inside the studio space. “We need to soften your sound.”

Not one for preamble is he, Remus thinks. When he had called from rehab, Peter had paused for a beat, muttered an _okay then_ and hung up. James had liked that about him immediately, thought they needed someone who wouldn’t bullshit them. Marlene had agreed, pointing out that they needed someone who could cut through their egos, especially given that there were six of them. 

“Soften?” Marlene snorts. No doubt she’s regretting that now, egos be damned. 

“No way.” James states, straightening up. 

“I thought that’s why we added the girls.” Franks adds mockingly. 

Dorcas, sprawled next to him, kicks him in the groin with a wicked smile. “Try again, dickhead.” 

“I want to bring in another vocalist to write and duet with Remus. Someone up and coming to keep people interested.” Peter continues.

“What?” Remus cries, cringing at the thought of trying to coordinate with some yuppy pop idol. 

Peter holds up his hands placatingly. “Just for one single.”

Remus gapes at him. There was nothing wrong with their sound, they were a fucking rock group they didn’t need softening. 

“You’re losing momentum.” Peter states, cutting to the heart of the matter. Remus sighs and sits back against the cushions. The room is tight with tension and everyone pointedly does not look towards him. _Don’t fuck this up for us_ , Marlene had said all those months ago. 

Peter claps his hands together. “Ladies and gentlemen, Sirius Black.” 

Someone steps up from behind Peter and whatever protests Remus had been formulating die right then. Sirius Black is stunning. Bloody fucking gorgeous. All sharp angles and full lips, rivulets of shaggy hair framing pale skin. Remus almost wants to point at Sirius and ensure it’s a collective delusion. 

Dorcas, never one to pull punches, actually wolf whistles. Sirius grins and two of his teeth are pointed, his smile dipping a little to the left. He’s young, can’t be more than twenty, but there’s a deft swagger that bellies confidence. 

“Play nice.” Peter sweeps out of the room without further comment, leaving them to get better acquainted. Remus has a feeling that Peter wants to see if Sirius can withstand the sheer chaos of their band, no easy task. He shares a knowing glance with Marlene. 

“Drinks?” Gideon asks to a chorus of relieved agreement. 

“Quick, before Remus insists we start the new single tonight.” James slings an arm around Remus, bodily dragging him out of the room. 

Remus’ stomach sinks. He could beg off, cite some flimsy excuse, but the others would notice and scramble to make other plans. He hadn’t been to a bar since he’d been released from rehab over a month ago and he wasn’t eager to test if his sobriety would stick. He’ll only stay for one drink. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, Gideon will use any excuse for a drink.” Dorcas says as she threads an arm through Sirius’. 

Gideon steers them towards the pub two blocks over, a wateringhole for some of the crowd from Phoenix Records. They commandeer an entire table to themselves, Frank ordering them a round of drinks by flirting, badly, with the waitress. Sirius slides into the booth next to Remus, thigh pressed snugly against his. 

Remus white knuckles the table as a pitcher of beer is set down on the table. James shoots him a concerned glance but Remus shakes his head. 

Sirius nods at their motley group. “How did you all meet?”

Frank groans as James leans forward eagerly. James’ loves this part, the retelling of their epic rise to stardom, and given that starting a rock band had been mostly James’ idea the others let him have this. 

“Marls knows the love of my life.” James starts, going dreamy eyed. 

“I knew Gid’s brother.” Remus adds.

“Tutored.” James mutters with a fake cough.

Remus throws his hands up. “I tutored his brother.” 

“Nerd.” Marlene snickers.

“Dorcas auditioned for us.” 

“They auditioned for me.” Dorcas corrects pointedly. 

“And Frank we picked up on the side of the road.”

“Literally.” Marlene puts in. 

“We were driving to Manchester, all set to perform at a string of bars and pubs.”

“No money in it.” Dorcas grumbles, even two years after the fact. It was a never ending point of contention between her and James. His inability to manage money and her inability to tolerate his posh upbringing. 

“James’ girl lives in Manchester.” Remus explains. 

“Frank was walking along the highway, guitar strapped to his back.”

“Marlene didn’t feel right about leaving him.” Gideon says. 

“Gideon made us stop.” Marlene corrects. 

Franks drops his head into his hands. “My girl had kicked me out you see.”

“Tragic.” James bemoans and from anyone else it would be sarcastic. 

“I believe it was raining that night, wasn’t it?” 

Frank’s head thuds against the table as they all nod in unison.

“Poor lad was drenched–” James starts, eyes gleaming.

“In tears.” Marlene quips. 

“Miserable and alone.” James continues, heedless of the interruption. 

Remus shrugs. “There were already five of us. We figured a sixth couldn’t hurt.”

Sirius blinks, mouth parted a little in shock. 

Marlene, on Sirius’ other side, claps him on the shoulder. “You get used to it.”

“Sure.” Sirius says a bit meekly, head swiveling between the lot of them. 

From there it’s a parade of censored anecdotes from the road, Remus’ role carefully edited out of the raunchier parts or missing altogether. Marlene stumbles once, faltering when she realizes the story involves Gideon with his pants down and Remus on his knees. Remus pales and Gideon elbows Marlene abruptly. Sirius politely lets the moment pass with little more than a quirked eyebrow.

Later, when James is working on his fourth whiskey sour there’s a monologue about the sweep of Lily’s eyelashes and the smattering of freckles across her nose. It’s a monologue they’re all familiar with, though the tangent about her success at university is new. When Frank begins to tell the waitress that they’re a famous rock group, only to be met with a disbelieving snort, Remus excuses himself for a smoke. 

Remus is already on his second fag when he feels a lithe body sidle up to him. Remus catches the edge of Sirius smirk as he leans against the brick. Remus hopes the cool night air tempers his burning cheeks. No man should be that beautiful, Remus thinks frantically. Sirius pulls out his own pack of smokes. 

“Remus Lupin, frontman for The Six.” Sirius takes a long drag, looking up at the dense evening sky. “You know I asked around about you. You’re quite the mystery.” 

Remus shrugs. “Not much for the spotlight.” 

“Right.” Sirius drawls. “I bet you’re also not much for the rock n’roll perks.”

Remus tenses, sparing Sirius a scathing glance. Sirius raises his eyebrows, undaunted. 

“You have heard some about me.”

“Just a little.” Sirius shrugs unapologetically. “Your stint in rehab.” 

“I’m sober now.” Sirius raises his eyebrows disbelievingly. Remus scowls at Sirius nonchalance, unwilling to explain himself and scared that maybe, just maybe, the disbelief is warranted. Staying sober is the hardest goddamn thing Remus has ever had to do after all. 

“Been in London long?” Remus asks apropos of nothing, wanting to shift the line of inquiry. Manners having come back to him with his sobriety. 

“Born and raised.” Sirius says, posh accent bleeding into the vowels. Remus startles, _he’d purposefully softened the accent_. 

Remus cocks an eyebrow. “Mysterious.”

Sirius tilts his head mockingly, locks falling out of his bun haphazardly. Remus blames the absolute devastating slope of Sirius’ jaw for the way his attention lags from the conversation. 

“I’ll trade you one of my secrets for one of yours.” Sirius is saying when Remus jolts back to attention. 

“I don’t have any interesting secrets.” Remus mutters.

Sirius rolls his eyes, apparently he’s intent on not believing anything that comes out of Remus’ mouth. As Sirius lifts a hand to take another lengthy drag, a bulky ring winks under the streetlights, a glint of green inlaid in ornate white gold. 

Remus stares at Sirius appraisingly. “You’re a Black.” 

_One of those Blacks_ , goes unsaid. Old money turned real estate moguls, a few times removed from the monarchy. One of the wealthiest families in all of Great Britain. Remus smothers the desire to pluck at the unraveling seams of his t-shirt and look down at his secondhand steel toed boots. 

Sirius stils, crossing his arms and scrutinizing Remus anew. “You’re quick.”

“I can quote most of Hamlet.” Remus says. 

“What?” 

“Secret for secret, right?”

“A bit of a lackluster secret there, mate.” Sirius mumbles, as he slumps against the brick. 

A couple exits the pub arm in arm, releasing a trickle of laughter and jeers into the night air. Warm light spills out onto the sidewalk and Remus can smell stale beer, sweat and salt. Suddenly, the thought of his bandmates’ jubilance and half-slurred barbs fills him with dread. 

“Tell’em I went home, yah?” Remus stubs his cigarette out and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Sirius nods, something like disappointment flashing across his face. Remus gives him a parting wave and turns on his heel. 

–

Remus pries open his eyes in confusion. Teddy is lying on his chest, jam smeared hands on Remus’ cheeks. Remus smiles despite himself, scooping Teddy up and making his way towards the kitchen. The flat is hardly big enough for them, a one bedroom with a one-wall kitchen now littered with toys and folded laundry. When they had first seen the flat Dora had traced the large windows lovingly, pointing out the money they could save on electricity like this, and Remus had caved. They had intended to move somewhere bigger before the baby but that discussion had evaporated just like any familiarity they had once shared. 

Dora is mashing bananas in a bowl at the counter, a mug of coffee already at her elbow.

“Where were you last night?” She asks softly, eyes downcast.

Remus cradles Teddy closer. “Out with the band. Peter wants me to duet with some upcoming artist.”

Dora perks up at that. “Who?”

“Sirius Black?” Remus places Teddy on the counter, keeping a grip on his chubby fists to keep him upright. 

Dora nods. “Bit green isn’t he?” 

“I’m going to pick up his record.”

Dora holds up a hand, ducking into the bedroom they no longer share and towards the shelves that hold their record collection. The combined collection is housed in shabbily stacked crates against the far wall, Dora having added to it during Remus’ absence. 

“Here. It’s not bad.” She holds up a black record with a wolf’s gaping maw adorning the cover. “Bit more polished than you’re used to.” 

Dora approaches the turntable, carefully removing the record from the sleeve. Remus grins at how gently Dora handles the vinyl. Remus takes a seat at the table with Teddy in his lap, spoon feeding him the banana mush combo with a grimace. Sirius’ voice wafts over them, rich and lilting, that carefully concealed accent spilling into the sweeping melody. It is polished. Smooth with a slow tempo and subtle build. It’s not quite The Six’ style but there’s no arguing that Sirius is talented. 

Teddy slams down his sippy cup against the table, demanding attention and causing milk to spill everywhere. Remus chuckles as Teddy frowns up at him. Dora smiles softly and Remus feels that unshakeable coil of guilt unfurl once again. 

“I’ll be home early tonight.” Remus says. “Just a quick rehearsal today.”

“No such thing.” Dora looks up at him knowingly, brushing newly purpled locks out of her face. 

“I’ll cook tonight.” Remus promises. “Macaroni and cheese.”

Dora nods even as she already turns away from him. Rehab may have flushed the drugs and alcohol out of his system but it had done little to repair their tattered relationship. 

–

Sirius calls and invites Remus to his flat on Friday morning, wanting to get started on composing the single. Remus can’t think of any excuse not to. Dora spends almost every weekend up at her parents home in Henley, eager for a respite and help with the baby. Andromeda is no doubt in the process of persuading her only daughter to move home, not that Remus blames her. There’s nothing recommending Remus to them aside from the squandered potential of his above average A levels. 

Sirius throws open the door with a beaming smile. Remus smiles shyly as he takes in the dark smudges under Sirius’ eyes. 

Sirius waves him in. “I have coffee.”

“Did you sleep?” Remus asks. Sirius is wearing the same t-shirt as last night when he had stopped in to watch The Six rehearse. 

“Not much.” Sirius admits, already tinkering with a dented coffee machine.

Remus doesn’t know what he’d been expecting from a child of the House of Black but a shoebox flat was not it. The neighborhood is nice enough, one of those strips of London destined for gentrification, teeming with young couples and bars. The tiny space holds a fold out table, more suited to a garden than a flat, and a single armchair pressed against an open window in the corner. 

“Milk?” Sirius asks, sniffing the carton with a grimace.

Remus smiles. “Black is fine.” 

“Good choice.” Sirius pours a splash of milk in his own mug regardless. 

Remus looks askance at the apartment, suddenly feeling a lot younger like a schoolboy visiting a friend’s for the first time and being too embarrassed to ask for the loo. 

“Wait here.” Sirius says and disappears into what Remus assumes is the bedroom. He reappears with an armful of duvet and throw pillows which he deposits on the floor. He motions for Remus to get comfortable, quickly handing him a steaming mug of coffee. Sirius sits cross legged in the mound of duvet, removing a notebook from somewhere unknown. 

“So I have some stuff I wanted to use on my last record–” Sirius starts. 

“I think it would be easier if we started from scratch. Something that comes entirely from the both of us.” Remus cuts him off, then flushes at having interrupted him. He was used to the slapstick rapid fire dialogue of The Six, constantly having to vie for attention and having grown used to asserting himself as the lead. 

Sirius narrows his eyes but nods his assent. They go back and forth for a bit, throwing out themes they can build off of. Remus thinks love is the easiest place to start, but Sirius squirms uncomfortably at that and they move on. Eventually they decide to write in bits and pieces, starting points to anchor the song before they enter the studio. 

“How about _as a child_ _I believed in God, as a man I believe in good_.” Sirius taps a pen against his notebook, wads of discarded paper piled around him. 

“Not bad. I liked–” Remus flips to another page. “ _Weight of the world, sun in the sky, told me I could do anything, why did they lie_.”

Sirius chews on his pen and shakes his head. Remus groans and chucks another wad of paper into the growing pile.

Hours later Sirius is crouched on the armchair, in the process of defending the wording of his hook, when they’re interrupted by a pounding on the door. Sirius trails off and looks up in confusion, the creative fog lifting slowly. 

Sirius scrambles to unlock the door to find James on the other side. 

“I thought we were going for drinks.” James strides into the flat without an invitation, startling when he spots Remus lying spread eagled on the floor. Remus waves. 

“Moony! I was wondering why you didn’t call a rehearsal.”

“You a slavedriver?” Sirius asks with a broad grin. 

“Necessary evil.” Remus mutters. 

“How long have you guys been at this?” James suspiciously scans the flat, taking in the discarded mugs and scraps of paper. 

Remus looks at the waning evening light. “Five? Six hours?”

“You are a monster.” James points a finger at him accusingly. “Drinks on me tonight. Lily wants to meet Sirius. She’s a fan.”

Sirius brightens at that, cheeks painted a flattering pink. Remus knows he ought to skip the pub tonight but Sirius is smiling so widely Remus has collected his coat before the thought has even fully formed. It feels like courting disaster.

–

James and Remus trade barbs as they meander towards the pub, there’s an easiness between the two of them which betrays childhood camaraderie. Remus who has been nothing but tight lipped politeness since Sirius has met him is suddenly shaking with laughter. Remus pauses in his ribbing James just long enough to hold the door open for Sirius. As soon as they enter the pub a fine boned redhead waves at them obnoxiously. Remus tenses beside him, taking a seemingly subconscious step backwards. 

“You scared of James’ girl?” Sirius murmurs as James darts forwards, collecting the redhead in his arms. 

“If you were smart you would be too.” 

“Oh, but didn’t you hear? She’s a fan.” Sirius tosses his hair and follows James towards the table. 

The lines around Remus’ mouth loosen. 

“Sirius Black!” Lily screeches when she sees him, completely tossing over her boyfriend in order to pull him down next to her. James rolls his eyes and takes the seat on her other side. “I’m Lily.”

Lily looks around with a frown. “Where’s Remus?” 

“He’d rather brave the bar than face you, love.” James slings an arm around her waist, drawing her away from Sirius none too subtly. 

Lily raises her eyebrows. “Is that wise?”

Remus places an Old Fashioned in front of Lily, nodding politely at her before retreating to Sirius’ side. 

Lily smiles gratefully and raises the glass. “Ta.” 

“Kiss ass.” James murmurs through his teeth. 

Remus shrugs. “Call it a survival tactic.”

Sirius realizes that Remus has placed a margarita before him and a pint before James. Sirius looks up in confusion.

Remus frowns. “You like tequila, right?”

Sirius nods and takes a hearty sip to hid his burning cheeks. _He's just being polite._

“Tell us about yourself, Sirius.” Lily sips her drink with a hum of satisfaction. 

Sirius has a spiel he uses whenever such biographical tid bits are necessary. A few anecdotes and half-truths just detailed enough to dissuade further prying and vague enough to comfortably shield the reality. It’s only half-way through an anecdote about winning his first record deal that he realises Remus had already deduced the truth for himself. When Sirius turns to him he’s listening patiently, making no moves to disabuse Lily and James of their notions of Sirius’ somewhat atypical rise to stardom.

Lily and James make their excuses around midnight, citing early morning breakfast plans with James’ folks. 

“You know you’re always welcome.” James says as he helps Lily shrug into her coat. 

Remus raises his eyebrows and they communicate in some sort of secret code composed of furrowed eyebrows, tight eyes and pursed lips. Lily pulls James away before the secret code can devolve into an all out facial war. Remus follows beside Sirius, pointing towards the tube station three blocks down in explanation. 

“Lily’s lovely.” Sirius says out of the blue, the alcohol having dampened his ability for subtlety. 

“Yes, she is.” Remus answers slowly. 

“You and her have a falling out or someat?” 

“I made some bad decisions, decisions that hurt a lot of people. Lily is less forgiving than the others have been.” Remus closes his eyes and chuckles mockingly. “With good reason.”

A wistful smile graces Remus’ lips. _Oh that’s lovely_ , Sirius thinks dazely.

“Bit of a shame though. She used to be partial to me, even over James. She couldn’t bloody stand him in sixth form.”

Sirius nods sagely. “You can quote Shakespeare. Birds go in for that sort of thing.” 

“Yah, I reckon they do.” 

When Remus disappears below ground Sirius tries not to feel bereft. 

–

When Sirius walks into the studio on Monday morning it’s to find Remus sprawled across the atrocious red couch which fills the small space. It’s covered in these twining flowers and hopping bunnies, a true travesty. Sirius' eyes dart around the room, he wonders if anyone would notice if he nicked it for his flat.

Remus looks up in surprise. “Bit early innit?” 

“Early bird and all that.” 

He'd barely slept last night, now his body is coiled at attention and fighting off exhaustion simultaneously. Sirius tries to still his shaking hands, digging his nails into the flesh of his palm. Remus gazes at him curiously. 

“I’m hitting a wall.” Remus admits, waving at the wastebasket full of paper. 

Sirius swipes at Remus’ current doodles, scattered across the page are musings about addiction and failure. Some lines about losing your way, losing yourself to fame. Bit dark, bit generic. 

“I know, I know.” Remus moans. “Unoriginal.” 

“A tad, mate.” 

Sirius had listened to The Six’ record over the weekend. Most of their stuff was about falling in love and growing up, sentimental drivel with just enough honesty to be gritty. Falling in love with the wrong girl, flaunting authority, youthful schemes left by the wayside in favour of adulthood. 

Sirius flips to the next page, scanning through it quickly. “None of this is personal.” 

Remus stares at him, lips pressed together politely. When Sirius had imagined the frontman for The Six this sweet tempered man had not been it. Remus is unfailingly polite, even when he disagrees with something all he does is purse his lips and shakes his head demurely. Not exactly the picture of rock n’roll depravity Sirius had expected. 

As if to prove his point the door clicks open and an oval faced girl with faded purple hair pokes her head in. 

Remus sits up. “Dora.”

“I’m sorry, Remus. I need to run out for a bit. It’s my dad.” Dora explains apologetically.

Dora steps into the room and suddenly Sirius can see the baby on her hip. The child is fat and happy, pink with exertion as he attempts to squirm out of Dora’s arms. 

“Ba! Ba!” The child babbles happily, making grabby hands at Remus as he strides towards them. Remus chuckles and swoops in, lifting him from Dora’s arms with practiced ease. 

“I’ll see you tonight.” Remus presses a kiss to her cheek. Dora's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. 

Remus plops back down on the couch with the baby in his lap. The baby presses chubby fists to Remus' cheeks and keeps up a continuous stream of babbling. Remus blows a raspberry and the baby squeals. 

“This is Teddy.” Remus introduces, waving one of Teddy's fists like a marionette's. 

Sirius gapes, trying to reconcile the idea of fatherhood with what he knows of Remus so far, a rising rock sensation fresh off a drug bender. Even though Remus has already subverted most of Sirius’ expectations, a child and possibly a wife have Sirius bowled over. His throat is tight with disappointment. 

Sirius had expressed disbelief in Remus’ sobriety upon first meeting him but now, staring at Teddy's toothless smile, Sirius thinks he understands a little better. Remus’ jaw tenses as Sirius continues to gape at the baby, tightening his hold around his son subconsciously. Sirius snaps his mouth shut with an audible click. 

“No interesting secrets, huh?” Sirius asks. 

Teddy shoves his fist into his mouth. Sirius smiles reluctantly.


	3. Beginnings

_**November 4th, 1981** _

Remus’ chair wobbles precariously as he shifts. He looks down. The floor is uneven, boards slanted together crookedly. Remus squirms nervously even though it's his third meeting. The basement in some pale Covent Garden church is nice enough, all beechwood and shiny red baseboards.

It’s an unlisted Narcotics Anonymous location, courtesy of Peter knowing someone who knows someone who knows someone who almost overdosed on heroin. These NA meetings are closed to the select few not confident in the program’s anonymity. Besides Remus there are three other musicians, one who was caught in a limelight breakdown, a judge, an investment banker recovering from fraud and a solicitor. 

Remus taps a pattern on his thigh as Narcissa, the solicitor, explains how postpartum depression and a nasty divorce had driven her to a painkiller addiction. Narcissa chokes up when she speaks about her son, not even two years old, and the toll it had taken on her to admit she was emotionally numb to the child. Remus feels a stab of pain, thinking of those first few months without Teddy, when all he had were his cries and squeals over a dial tone. 

“Thank you for sharing, Narcissa.” Minerva, the group leader, says with a firm nod. Minerva is a fierce woman in her late sixties, her mouth pursed into an ever present frown and her graying hair pulled back into a brutal chignon. Her expression is unmoving, Remus has only ever seen her mouth twitch in approval once or twice. 

“Would anyone else like to share?” Minerva turns to her keen gaze towards him. 

Remus shrinks under the scrutiny, chair wobbling dangerously. At his first meeting she had greeted him with that same frown, muttering something about fame under her breath. Remus had stuttered through an introduction and then she had promptly turned her gaze away from him, not addressing him any further for the following three meetings. She arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him now, looks like his luck has run out. 

“I have a kid, a son. His name is Teddy. He’s four months old. He hates peas and likes strawberry jam best. He cries every time the kettle goes off and can only fall asleep to Bob Marley.” 

Remus chuckles softly despite himself, tilting his head towards Naricssa. She gives him a watery smile in solidarity.

“My son is four months old and I spent the first three months of his life in rehab.” 

Sympathetic nods from the assembled addicts. Minerva’s gaze is unwavering. 

“He was born two weeks early and I think–” Remus pauses, suddenly unsure how to put this into words, this certainty he has, this doomsday feeling. Remus looks down. 

“I’m not sure I would be here today if he hadn’t been.”

The admission is one he has never let fully form, never dwelled on or voiced aloud. Gideon’s whispered hiss that he wouldn't make it to Dora’s due date, the one he’d awoken to the first time he’d gotten caught shooting up heroin, still echoes in his ears. He knows the truth of it, carries with him the certainty that another two weeks may have very well robbed him of his life and his son of his father. Remus grinds his teeth together, jaw tensing as the room is swathed in a near suffocating silence. 

Minerva’s mouth twitches. “Thank you, Remus.” 

Most of the others slip away immediately, as if lingering near the church would be cause for suspicion. The musicians slip on sunglasses and turn up the collars of their jackets, exiting in a conspicuous clump. The banker and judge have cars awaiting them above ground. Remus refuses to use names, the cloak of anonymity a salve to the reality of his situation. 

Narcissa is the exception. During his second meeting he had looked towards the refreshments to find the banker's hand on Narcissa's arse. Narcissa had poured coffee down the front of the banker’s crisp white button down in retaliation. The banker had been forced to sit through the court mandated meeting in a neon orange Happy Camper t-shirt. That was the first time Remus had seen Minerva’s lips twitch. 

Remus sits on a slab of stone outside, chain smoking and trying to work up the courage to go home to Dora. He feels flayed raw, desperately itching for something stronger than a cigarette to dull his nerves. Remus turns when he hears the clack of heels. 

“Light?” Narcissa asks, perching on the stone beside him.

It’s bizarre seeing this impeccably coiffed woman lean over to light a fag, red lipstick smearing as she takes a puff. The wind ruffles her blazer and Narcissa folds her legs delicately, ankles turned towards Remus. Remus stares at the weeds sprouting from the cement, watches as they brush against her ankles and the curve of her lavish heels. 

“Draco.” Narcissa hands him a photo of a cherubic little blonde boy, two teeth protruding crookedly from a happy smile. Remus raises his eyebrows and Narcissa snorts. “Old family tradition, naming our children after constellations.”

“Named Teddy after my girlfriend’s father.” Remus offers in lieu of anything else. 

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Narcissa smiles, “I mean not always, but most of the time.”

“Most of the time.” Remus agrees. This morning Teddy had upturned a bowl of mush and then started to wail pitifully when Remus had attempted to clean up the mess. 

“I’ve been sober a year.” Narcissa says around her cigarette, brushing away invisible lint and smoothing the lapels of her blazer. _Nervous_ , Remus thinks. 

Remus squints up at the glaring afternoon sun. “Doesn’t get easier does it?”

“No, sorry.” Narcissa laughs. Remus is surprised to find it’s genuine. “It’s worth it though.” 

They finish their cigarettes in silence. 

–

Sirius stumbles into the bar, muttering an apology to the affronted lady he’s just jostled. The bar is filled to the brim with people, young couples vying for tables from university students. It’s casual, all dark woods and low lighting, a sea of snug fitting jeans and feathered hair. Sirius makes a beeline for Lily. She’s wearing something frilly that leaves her shoulders bare, a mosaic of colours making her easy to spot. Lily smiles widely, pulling Sirius into a firm hug before flagging down the bartender. 

“He's married?” Sirius hisses as he slumps down in the barstool beside her. 

“Ugh, I know. You know if I didn’t have James–”

Sirius blinks at her. 

“Who are you talking about?”

"Harrison Ford. Who are you talking about?”

“Remus!”

Lily raises her brows and sips her chardonnay. “He’s not married.”

“Dora?” 

“Dora wanted to–” Lily purses her lips. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.”

 _Rehab_ , Sirius thinks as he takes a hearty gulp of his pint. 

“Look, I don’t have the best opinion of Remus.” Lily explains apologetically. “I know him and Dora are trying to work things through.”

Sirius nods and tries to mask his disappointment, unsuccessfully if the comforting pat on the hand is any indication. 

Lily flags down the bartender for more drinks. “Cheer up. Let’s celebrate your new hit single.” 

“Potential hit single,” Sirius murmurs with a roll of his eyes. 

Half an hour later, after Lily has been dragged into an argument about the merits of some new oncology treatment by the bloke beside her, Sirius excuses himself to the bathroom. He sheds his leather jacket and scrubs a hand over his face, staring at himself hard in the mirror. 

It’s not like he had expected Remus to throw himself at his feet, but he had hoped that there might have been something there. He had seen the way Remus’ gaze flickered to him when they were writing, the languid heat of his gaze when they had stood outside the bar. Sirius was familiar with that kind of attention, he knew how to spot buried desire and return lingering touches. He had acquired the skill through trial and error and had soon learned that errors were best avoided in badly lit music venues. 

Over the years Sirius’ margin of error had narrowed significantly, but it still existed. Remus was proof of that. Why had he thought Remus would want him? Sirius with his pretty face and empty thoughts, with little to show for his time on this earth except a handful of songs and a trail of rumpled bed sheets. 

Sirius splashes water across his face and places three capsules on the tip of his tongue. When Sirius weaves his way back to Lily she’s already ordered a round of tequila shots, the cheap stuff that’s smooth on the way down but burns on the way back up. Sirius smiles gratefully, barely waiting for her acknowledgement before downing the first one. 

“No more mopping.” Lily tosses red locks over her shoulder and slams a shot down on the counter. 

“Right.” Sirius nods and follows suit. 

At three in the morning Lily has her hand looped through Sirius’ arm, leading him through cobbled streets and avoiding traffic with giggles. Sirius murmurs nonsense in her hair and she laughs at anything mildly funny. They find themselves on the stoop of James’ townhome, Lily knocking obnoxiously and Sirius trying to quell any desire to upheave.

James cracks open the door with a bemused frown. Lily throws her arms around his neck and pulls him in for a sloppy kiss, apparently having forgotten about Sirius. James pulls away dazedly, holding her up and scanning her flushed face. 

“What’s the occasion?” He asks as he slings an arm around her waist and guides her inside, waving at Sirius to follow. 

“My margin of error,” Sirius mumbles.

– 

Remus knocks three times before James wrenches open the door, t-shirt around his neck and sleep crust in his eyes. James hushes him fiercely, tugs the t-shirt on and points towards Sirius slumbering fitfully on the sofa, a green monstrosity which had been rejected by the seventies for being too garish. Someone, Remus assumes James given the fact that he’s upright and conscious, had been sober enough to cover Sirius in an afghan, which is a violent purple and equally as garish. 

Remus quirks a brow. James shrugs and motions towards the kitchen. 

“Lily and him came home completely pissed.” James frowns at the kettle. “Muttering about Harrison Ford and statistics.”

Remus follows him into the kitchen, scanning the townhome for any lasting damage, other than James’ dismal style in decor. James’ parents had gifted him the home when he had revealed his intentions to move to London to pursue music. Remus had gaped when they had first arrived, blown away by the hardwood floors, the peach painted walls and the seemingly never ending expanse of windows. The paint was peeling and the lights flickered, every faucet leaked and the walls weren’t insulated and yet Remus had never lived anywhere so grand. 

Remus, Gideon and James had shared the place when they had first moved here, not one bedframe between the three of them but a dozen records for every piece of furniture. Every night of that first summer they would pile their mattresses in the middle of the sitting room, open the windows and smoke pot until their fingers went numb. Gideon and Remus would strum half-heartedly at their guitars, laughing more than singing and falling asleep between songs.

It was on one of these nights that they had mistakenly dubbed the house Potter Palace, an unfortunate moniker that had stuck. Remus brushes a hand across the ever fading paint. This is where he had been happiest. 

Remus and James pour themselves cuppas and wait for the rest of the house to wake from their spots at the kitchen table. Soon enough Remus hears shuffling from above, the floors creaking under the weight of padded feet. Lily descends the stairs slowly, sleep smudged and frowning, gaze flickering across the first floor. 

“Get up, you fucking tosser.” Lily grumbles as she throws herself on top of Sirius on the couch, effectively startling him awake. Sirius makes an aborted snorting sound and groans. 

“Barmy bint.” Sirius pushes Lily off him, sending her tumbling to the floor. He steps over her body and nods towards Remus. 

"Morning.” Sirius rounds the counter and goes about making himself a cuppa. “Jamie, dear. Sorry about being sick over the edge of your balcony.” 

“Should have been sick on the sofa, done us all a favour.” Lily says as she painstakingly lifts herself off the floor. She presses a kiss to James’ brow and pushes Sirius off his chair, smiling in satisfaction when he yelps and crashes to the floor in a heap of limbs.

“Children, children.” James intones, the voice of reason for once and looking proud of it. 

“Is that a bust of Mick Jagger?” Remus asks, unable to tear his eyes away from the offending object. It’s shiny, a robin egg blue and has been lovingly given a prominent spot on the coffee table. 

James nods solemnly. “Amen.”

“He’s nesting.” Lily explains, gesturing towards the calamity which is James Potter’s living room. 

The front door clicks open and Gideon’s cheerful greeting is met with a round of groans and a biting description about where to shove said greeting from Lily. Sirius has pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the kitchen table, humming in satisfaction. 

“What happened to my invite?” Gideon asks as he rounds into the kitchen. He begins to make himself a cuppa, rifling through the cabinets and crowing in victory when he finds the green tea. _Freak._

“Spur of the moment.” Lily says, as she sips milky tea prepared by James. Remus feels a twinge of jealousy at the ease with which James has prepared the cuppa. Orange pekoe, honey, milk. No questions asked. 

“How’s that new song coming?” 

Sirius groans pathetically, placing his cheek on the table to stare up at Remus. “It’s done.”

James startles, gaze flicking to Remus accusingly. “You never said.”

“Why do you think I came over?”

“Thought you missed me.” James grumbles, suddenly sounding just as pathetic as those suffering from hangovers. 

“That too,” Remus concedes. 

“He saw you yesterday,” Marlene points out as she enters the kitchen. 

Marlene had moved into Remus’ old room shortly after she had joined the band and Remus had moved in with Dora. Frank had been relegated to sleeping in the first floor office. The only member of the band not currently residing in the townhome, besides Remus, was Dorcas. She claimed that she saw enough of them as it was. 

Marlene places a pan on the stove, ready to begin the ordeal of cooking a proper fry up. She pulls out an entire carton of eggs and two racks of sausages. Sirius perks up when he smells sausages and even Lily’s frown softens by her second cuppa. Gideon is put in charge of toast and even that task warrants worried looks from the others. 

By the time Frank is roused from sleep the kitchen table is piled high with food and steaming mugs of coffee have been set down in front of everyone. There’s not enough room for them all at the table so instead Gideon opts to sit on the windowsill and Lily and James have cocooned themselves on the couch. Sirius is happily shovelling eggs into his mouth at the table, glancing between the band with interest.

“The bird was into me, I’m telling you,” Frank is saying as he makes himself a plate, muffling a yawn even at the late hour. 

James cranes his neck over the couch. “Frank, just because she doesn’t slap you upside the head don’t mean she’s keen on you.”

“Well, it’s a start.”

“And the best he can hope for really.” Marlene shrugs, holding her mug to her lips to hide a smile. 

“It’s that face that puts them off–” Gideon begins. 

“At least until he opens his mouth,” Remus cuts in.

Frank gives them a two-fingered salute and takes his breakfast to his room, the office door slamming shut behind him to demonstrate his ire. 

–

Remus stares at the cobbled walkway leading towards his childhood home. It looks the same, or almost the same. The roof still slopes unnaturally to the left and vines still crawl up the walls, twining around the window shutters. Weeds have sprouted from between the walkway stones and the grass is unkempt and browning. His mum’s roses have wilted, drooping forwards and gripping their stems as if for dear life. 

There’s a shadow in the window, flitting back and forth with a phone cord in hand. Remus should have called first, should have prefaced this incredibly spontaneous trip home with some sort of apology or explanation. It had been eight months since he had last been home, longer since he had phoned his mum. Maybe she won’t want to see him. 

Remus knocks softly. He can hear his mother’s voice accompanied by the pitter patter of her heeled slippers wafting towards him as she approaches the door. He can hear her press against the door and the audible gasp as she looks through the peephole. Remus heaves his duffle high on his shoulder. 

The door is thrown open. “Remus, honey.” 

His mother presses her hands to her bosom. Her gray locks are twisted into a knot at the base of her neck and her eyes are wide with surprise. There are lines in the corners of her eyes that had not been there even a year ago. An apron is cinched around her waist and there’s a wooden spoon in her hand, caked in something buttery. 

“Hi, mum. Can I come in?”

Hope ushers him to the kitchen, fussing with the kettle and avoiding his eyes. Remus smells lemon verbena in the air. She places a plate of biscuits in front of him, warm to the touch and crumbling. 

“I had to hear from _Andromeda_ that I had a grandbaby. She called me up from the hospital to let me know that Dora had a little baby boy.”

Remus doesn’t look away from his mum. He lets her see the pinprick of tears, the regret and shame which crests in him at her words. Hope nods and steeples her fingers, seemingly happy to have said her peace. She reaches for Remus’ hand, clutching it firmly. 

“Are you alright?”

Now Remus looks away, towards the eclectic garden and the measly collection of herbs. He remembers spending lazy mornings basking in the sun and ignoring his schoolwork, writing lyrics in the margins in lieu of formulas. He brushes tears from his cheeks. 

“No, mum. I’m not alright.” 

Hope squeezes his hand tightly. 

–

The whole band sits just outside the rehearsal space while Remus and Sirius collect themselves, relaying their wishes to James who sits at the drums. They’ll add the others later but now they’re playing with the bare bones. They’d rehearsed together last night, giving James ample opportunity to fiddle around with the song. Remus is more nervous than he should be, shuffling forwards and tweaking the height of the microphone. 

Sirius grins at Remus. “It’s a great song.”

“You wrote half of it,” Remus snorts. 

“That’s how I know it’s great.” 

Sirius grins cheekily and flounces towards his own microphone. He looks towards Remus and winks. Remus begins to strum his guitar, plucking at the chords and letting the soothing timber do away with his nerves.

“Saturday night and you’re sweat slicked and wild,” Sirius starts, slow and sweet like honey. "Barely a man but time stopped when you smiled."

Soon the song washes over him and Remus and Sirius alternate lyrics with practiced ease. James ratchets up the tempo, a flurry of deep beats and slow chords.

Remus leans into the mic, “I call you high strung, hand on my thigh, lies on my tongue.”

“How can this be love?” Sirius intones, raspy and indecent. As the song comes to a close, Sirius gazes at Remus and some unnamed emotion flits across his face.

Remus almost falters.

"How can this be love?" Remus repeats, softer. 

Remus lifts the strap of the guitar above his head and makes his way towards the rest of the band, Sirius at his heels. Remus waits with bated breath as the rest of the band look at each other in contemplation. Peter has entered in the last few minutes, looking between the two of them speculatively. 

"I love it." Frank states, the rest of the band nods and scrambles to offer their compliments. Dorcas hesitates a moment before joining. 

"Bit on the nose though, mate." Gideon offers.

Remus flushes, a fair few of the lines unmistakably reference Dora.

"Write what you know."

"It's great, Remus. Really." Marlene smiles widely.

Peter looks at the lot of them and claps his hands together.

“We have our single.”


	4. Fine

**_November 19th, 1981_ **

The phone rings and Remus grumbles pitifully, burying his head under his pillow. He hears footsteps and the click of the phone followed by James speaking in a low voice. James whoops loudly, effectively derailing any plans Remus has of falling back asleep. 

“Moony!” James shouts, ripping the hideous purple afghan off of Remus and prying the pillow from his grip. 

“What?” Remus whines, valiantly trying to rescue his pillow from James’ clutches. James dances away, holding up the phone and gesticulating wildly. 

“It’s Peter.” He grins maniacally. “They love it.”

Remus sits up, suddenly wide awake. Their single, ‘High Strung,’ had been released less than twenty-four hours ago. It was actually the reason he was ensconced on James’ monstrous couch, which Marlene had lovingly dubbed Loch Ness. Last night Remus had come home to find Dora waiting for him in the living room, arms folded and expression icy. She had offered him a biting congratulations on the new song and dropped his duffle at his feet. Sleep elsewhere, she had said. Remus wasn’t sure if she meant for good or not. 

James flies up the stairs to wake the others. Remus can hear him throwing open doors and Gideon’s indignant squawking. There’s a resounding thud and James yelps in fear. Remus chuckles softly, that must be Marlene. Gideon’s aim is nowhere near that good.

The phone is still off the hook and Peter’s voice drifts towards him. 

Remus presses the phone to his ear. “Sorry Pete, James got a little overexcited.” 

“Understandable. You have an indisputable hit on your hands.” Peter says calmly, unphased by their antics. “I’ve rescheduled the last half of your tour, managed to salvage the Ireland and Scotland dates.”

Remus almost drops the phone. The original plan had been to reschedule the dates when Remus had been cleared from rehab. Given Peter’s assertion that they had lost their momentum Remus had assumed this plan had been quietly scrapped, no such luck apparently. Remus curls a sweaty palm around the phone, a sense of foreboden rising up in him. 

“That’s great, Pete. Thanks.” Remus says weakly. 

Peter is silent for a moment. Remus reads the worry in his silence, anticipates the next statement. 

“Remus, if you’re not ready–”

“I'll be fine.”

“Well, that’s just not true.” 

Remus jaw tenses, muscles bunching. “I can handle it.”

“Good.” Peter’s words are muffled as he addresses someone else.

“Sirius Black is going to open for you guys.” 

Remus stomach tightens. Sirius is everything that Remus can no longer afford to linger on, even fleetingly. A deadly combination of temptation and talent, charm and easy manners. He was a born aristocrat but unruffled by Remus’ rust worn past, embodying none of the mannerisms which had characterised James’ interactions with the other posh boys at their sixth form.

Sirius hardly paid attention to Remus’ stilted silences except to fill them. Remus liked that about him, his never ending expanse of anecdotes and quips. It was a skill Remus had never acquired and envied in others. 

And Sirius was talented. Remus hadn’t expected that. He knew the man could sing, what he hadn't anticipated was the skill he possessed with a pen. The way Sirius spun words to song, eager to turn the most mundane experience into prose, was far more impressive than anything Sirius could do with a microphone.

The effect Sirius had on Remus left him uneasy and guilty. And all that without dwelling on Sirius’ crooked smile or the cut of his cheekbones. _Oh, that way madness lies._

–

Remus waits two days before returning to the flat, weary of intruding on Dora in her anger. When he finally unlocks the front door it’s to find Dora tinkering in the kitchen, Teddy yelling happily from the high chair pushed against the counter. She looks up when he enters, anger creasing the lines of her mouth. 

“That was personal.” 

No greetings, no pleasantries. Remus tries not to smile, knows Dora would no doubt make his exile permanent if he did. This had been one of the things Remus had first liked about Dora when they’d met. An inherent distaste for sugarcoating things a holdover from late in life parents who had over coddled their only child. 

Remus thinks of the first time they’d met, at the local library in Henley, where Remus would tutor Fabian every Tuesday. Remus had been trying to corral Fabian with little success when Dora had emerged from between the stacks. She had grinned, green hair curling around her chin, and plopped down across from them. She had leaned over and asked _so which one of you boys is going to take me out this Saturday?_ Fabian had blushed and spluttered. Remus had been enamoured. 

Remus blinks back to the present. “I know.”

“You broke my heart.” Dora slams her bowl down abruptly, milk sloshing over the edge. 

Teddy stops squealing, wide eyes on his mother. 

“You broke my heart and you put it out there for everyone to see.”

“That wasn’t my intention. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Dora, I’d never–” Remus stops.

“Not again. I wouldn’t–” Remus blows a breath out in frustration. “Not again.”

Dora blinks away tears. 

“You could have left me. When I got pregnant. You could have ended things there. I gave you an out.”

Remus remembers that morning, Dora sprawled next to him in bed, pink hair splayed across the pillow as she basked in the sun falling across the sheets. She had propped herself up on her elbows and turned to him, suddenly serious. _I’m pregnant_ , she had said, just like that. Remus is sure he must have replied, must have at least made some sound of shock. 

Dora had shrugged, _you don’t have to be involved. I get it, you know, with the band and all._

Remus had protested vehemently, thinking of his own estranged father. Remus had left for the tour a handful of days later. Dora watching the tour bus pull away with tears in her eyes and a hand on her stomach. 

“I didn’t want an out.”

“But you do now,” Dora spits out. 

Remus shakes his head frantically, gaze darting towards Teddy.

“No,” Remus steps towards her. “I’m not leaving.”

Remus winces. 

“Well, not exactly. They rescheduled our tour dates in Scotland and Ireland.”

This makes Dora pause, face shuttering, mouth tightening. 

“You’re barely out of rehab,” She argues scandalized. 

Remus is surprised to find that her anger is no longer solely directed at him. Her gaze is narrowed, her hands on her hips. He’s half worried she’s going to pick up the phone and call Peter herself. 

“The last time you went on tour–” Dora’s breath hitches. 

They had never done that. They had never discussed the tour and all the ways Remus had failed her, the laundry list of betrayals and excuses. Remus had apologized, pleaded, begged forgiveness and repented but Dora had never demanded answers. She had never asked why or who, never interrogated him or questioned him on the specifics. They had grown comfortable, swathed in denial and avoidance.

“I’ll be gone two months.”

Dora looks unsettled, reaching for Teddy and burrowing her nose in his wispy curls. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

The statement is no more convincing than when he had uttered it to Peter two days ago. 

–

Remus scans the bustling diner with trepidation. It’s decorated in some awful decades theme, black and white photos of celebrities immortalized on the wall and booths covered in a tacky swirl of red and blue. Remus had chosen a booth near the back, with full vantage of the front door, and he looks up every time the door jingles. 

Remus knee jumps at every plate crash and braying laugh from the kitchen. Even with the air conditioning blasting and the large windows giving him a view of the sidewalk Remus feels antsy and trapped, sweaty with anticipation. 

At the last meeting, Minerva had given him a business card with a number scrawled on the back. Remus had blinked at her, wondering dazedly how she had known he was seeking a sponsor. She had quirked an eyebrow and told him that Mr. Moody would expect his call. Remus knew that if he didn’t call she would know, either Mr. Moody would inform her or she would receive a carrier pigeon or smoke signal to that effect. 

The conversation had been brief, Mr. Moody biting off words so abruptly that Remus constantly had to stifle the urge to apologize. When he had asked how he would recognize him Mr. Moody had laughed and said, _Oh, you’ll recognize me_. 

Remus clutches at his mug and flags the waitress down for a refill. She scowls at him from under yellow tinted bangs. He’s on his third refill. Remus glances down at his watch nervously, twenty past the allotted meeting time. 

Remus startles when a gruff voice asks, “Am I late?” 

Remus looks up at a heavy set man in his fifties. Alastor Moody peers down at Remus with one eye, the other one hidden under a black eye patch. His face is dominated by a wide forehead and pockmarks, sandy blonde hair curls around his ears. 

Mr. Moody slides into the booth across from Remus. “I’m Alastor Moody. Moody.”

Moody flags down the waitress and places an order for a full english and coffee. The waitress’ scowl softens somewhat at the prospect of an actual tip. She brings Moody coffee with a pointed glance at Remus. 

“Minerva told me you’re going on tour. Tell me about that.”

“Ireland and Scotland. Only a handful of cities.”

Moody grunts and takes a healthy sip of his coffee, unbothered by the scalding heat. 

“You know that’s not what I meant. You start using on the road?”

“Didn’t start.” Remus shrugs. “Got bad though.”

“How bad?”

Remus squirms uncomfortably, thinking of low lighting and false confidence. 

“No need to be squeamish, lad. There’s nothing you could say that I haven’t already heard or done myself.”

Moody stares at him unflinchingly, his one good eye assessing and knowing. Remus’ gaze sweeps over him, the wear and tear to his body revealing. 

“Coke, speed, smack. Whatever else I could get my hands on.”

“I’m not asking what you took. I’m asking what you did.”

Remus’ eyes flit away, landing on the bus boy who’s struggling to hold a tub of dishes. He focuses on counting the discarded dishes the boy sweeps up. Three by the window, two by the door, six from the obnoxious teenagers washed out from the previous night. 

“Can’t remember most of it. I derailed our first tour, jeopardizing my bandmates' careers. Made the tabloids. Ruined a friendship or two.”

Remus pauses. 

“Cheated on my pregnant girlfriend. A lot. Groupies, bandmates, fans. Whoever was up for it that night.”

Moody arches a brow, “Bit clean cut innit?”

“What do you want to hear?” Remus scowls, temper spiking. 

“That sometimes I would wake up in my own sick? That I was on so much coke I can’t remember recording our first album? That I would shoot so much smack whole days are blacked out? Is that what you want to hear?”

Moody’s lips quirk. The waitress is standing frozen at the edge of their table, agape. She stutters an apology as she sets the plate down. Moody thanks her pleasantly before she positively flees. Remus flushes and slumps against the booth. 

“What about the baby?”

“Four months old. Teddy.”

“Congratulations.”

“You been with your girlfriend since you got back from the loony bin?”

Remus’ cheeks burn. “No.” 

“It’s safest to abstain from sex for a minimum of six months. You want to stay faithful right?”

“Yes,” Remus hisses. 

“Then you need a strategy to work through the cravings. Addicts are always looking to escape, you can’t get to what you really want so you may be tempted to sublimate it with something else.”

Moody waves a yolk covered fork at Remus.

“Focus on things that used to bring you joy, before the drugs. You write your own music?” 

Remus nods, afraid to do more than that lest Moody weaponize his fork. He has a flash of some mob movie in which the antagonist stabs some unsuspecting bloke to demonstrate his displeasure. 

“Focus on that and anything else that will distract you. It might seem like a temporary fix but before you know it, it’s been a day, then two, then a month, then a year.”

Moody produces a fifteen year chip from the folds of his jacket. It glints red and gold under the cheap fluorescent lighting.

“Going back to a setting like that, where you were at your worst, is a trigger. And a tour? It’s a breeding ground for addicts. The thrill and isolation alone makes you vulnerable.”

The waitress interrupts to refill their mugs. She smiles shyly at Remus and fills his mug to the brim in apology. Moody waits until she leaves before leaning over, elbows pressed into the table.

“My advice is to try to spend time in the real world, see your kid and girlfriend. Visit your folks. Get in contact with people who anchor you to your sobriety and avoid those who put it at risk. Got that?”

Remus nods. 

“Okay,” Moody clasps his hands together and nods towards the waitress for a refill. “Now, tell me a bit more about the tour.”

Remus relaxes a fraction, shoulders easing. 

“I’ve always wanted to see Dublin.”

–

Remus stares up at the tour bus, Teddy gurgling and squirming against his hip. Dora curls a hand around his bicep. He looks down and she offers him a tight lipped smile, worry clouding her eyes. Teddy makes a high pitched whine as Remus places him in Dora’s arms.

“I’ll be fine.” Remus repeats, the placation has never sounded so hollow. _How many times has he uttered these words in the last few days? Ten? Twenty?_

Dora purses her lips and nods. Remus places a chaste kiss against her lips and another to the crown of Teddy’s head before climbing aboard the bus. James and Dorcas are already on board, James reading some trashy tabloid while Dorcas listens to the latest football match. Remus smiles at them and goes to his bunk, clambering inside and drawing the curtains tightly shut. He’s already weary, worried about the kind of state he’ll be in when he sees Teddy again.

–

The crowd is restless, clapping politely when Sirius emerges on stage. The lights are bright and Sirius squints into the crowd, a mass of bodies eager to see The Six. They are not here for Sirius, not yet at least. 

When Sirius begins the first song, the crowd is hushed and still. Sirius is at his best in this moment, powder driven confidence and slow seduction, and when the final song comes to a close he’s dripping with sweat and his muscles protest any further movement. The crowd erupts in applause. 

Sirius flashes a smirk before prancing off stage. Remus is waiting in the wings, the rest of the band performing pre-concert rituals out of sight. 

“You were brilliant.” Remus offers, arms crossed and eyes flicking towards the crowd. “Half the crowd is arse over tit for you.”

Sirius pouts, “Just half?” 

Sirius takes greedy gulps from the water bottle pressed into his hand by a stagehand. Remus’ eyes linger.

“I should–” Remus motions behind him, where James and Gideon are motioning for him urgently. “Pre-concert rituals to perform.”

"Orgy?"

“Worse.” Remus leans towards him conspiratorially. “ABBA.”

Sirius can’t help but raise his eyebrows. Remus laughs and motions for him to follow. James and Gideon have already queued up an ABBA record in the dressing room and assembled the rest of the band. The room feels small, the collection of musicians and playful bickering filling the room to capacity.

“Just spilling our secrets now are we?” Frank calls out. 

Remus shrugs unapologetically. The first strings of ‘Waterloo’ reverberate across the room, causing the band to get to their feet synchronously. 

Marlene snorts a laugh, “Hardly one of our better secrets.” 

Before Sirius can even begin to fathom what that might mean Gideon begins to shimmy his hips to the song while James performs some sort of disco inspired movements. Marlene and Frank have begun to sing badly and off key and not at all reminiscent of the musicians they actually are.

“You have to dance.” Remus yells over the music, he throws up his arms and rolls his hips to demonstrate he’s serious. 

Sirius gapes at him. 

“Even Dorcas participates in this one,” Gideon points to where Dorcas has begun to shuffle from side to side, subdued and hardly more than swaying but dancing nonetheless.

Remus pulls Sirius to the middle of the room. “C’mon!” 

Escape now impossible and with genuine happiness evident across Remus' face, Sirius has no option but to throw his arms up and join in. 

–

Sirius tries to keep his gaze averted from Remus, who is sitting on one of the speakers backstage, legs dangling over the edge and a notebook in his lap. Remus is mumbling something to himself and tapping a rhythm against his thigh. He’s still sweat soaked from rehearsal, shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps tantalizingly. 

“It’s always been like that.” James says dryly, startling Sirius. “At any given time there are at least three people in love with Remus Lupin.”

James splays himself next to Sirius on the couch, leather and tattered and pressed against the wall of a bustling hallway backstage. Technicians and stagehands swarm around them, paying them little attention apart from nods of acknowledgement. 

Sirius splutters. “I’m not–”

James looks to where Remus is scribbling something down. “Give it time.”

Sirius frowns, gazing at Remus specutaviley. Attraction was hardly the same thing as love. Sirius’ brain stalls, _Three people?_

“Wait, three? Who else is in love with him?” 

James raises an eyebrow pointedly. Remus already has a girlfriend with a baby on her hip, Sirius can’t imagine having harder competition than that. _Maybe the second girl shares a joint checking account with him_ , Siris thinks bitterly. 

James surreptitiously scans the lounge.

“Gideon.” James confides in a whisper. Sirius gapes. 

“Gideon?” Sirius hisses. _He’s a man_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully. 

“On our last tour, while Tonks’ was pregnant. Nasty little affair, if you can even call it that.”

“Was Remus–”

“In love with him? God, no.” 

“Poor bloke.” Sirius murmurs unbidden. James stares at him. 

“Not sure Remus even knows how serious Gideon was about it. He’s a bit oblivious to this sort of thing. The whole situation was ugly.”

Sirius wonders if Tonks knows, and decides she probably doesn’t. Having an affair was one thing, having an affair with a bandmate was quite another. 

“Is this your way of telling me to back off?”

“Something like that.” James mumbles apologetically. “Trust me, it’s for your own good.”

Sirius nods and keeps his head down, vowing to focus on the tour and not it’s spoken for lead singer with ruffled hair and callused fingers. 

–

Gideon is plucking at his guitar strings lazily, murmuring a song by The Doors under his breath. Sirius’ head lolls against the couch as he fights off exhaustion, only a couple of hours of sleep under his belt. He blinks awake when Remus and James climb aboard their bus. James shuts the door behind them and motions for the coach driver to get going. The engines splutters, then revs then gives a sharp jerk before pulling out of the lot. 

“We’ve been exiled.” Remus explains dryly. 

“Dorcas is dyeing Marlene’s hair.”

“Again?” Gideon murmurs in disbelief.

“You know this is your fault.” James thumbs at Remus accusingly.

“Me?” Remus splutters. 

“You introduced her to Dora. That’s what started all this nonsense.”

“You’re the one who said she looked better as a blonde anyway. You know she took that as a challenge, she’ll probably choose something outrageous now. ”

Gideon nods, “Fuschia.”

“Or aquamarine.” 

“Or orange,” Sirius quips.

Gideon makes an affronted sound, trying to swat at Sirius. “Twat. I’ve never had any complaints.”

Remus’ eyes flit away guiltily, suddenly very interested in the rolling greenery. 

James snorts, “That’s because you don’t hang around long enough to hear them.”

Sirius hears a thud and Frank stumbles out from a bunk, as if summoned by some internal alarm which alerts him to when another bandmate is under fire. 

“Him? Blokes climb out the window before he can wake up.” 

Frank freezes when he sees Sirius, “Shit.”

James waves a hand, “It’s alright.”

“Same team,” Sirius smiles. 

“What is it about us that screams shirt lifters welcome?” Frank muses.

“All us shirt lifters?” Remus answers dryly.

“But you’re–” Sirius stops, suddenly unsure how to broach the ever sensitive topic of the woman waiting for Remus at home. 

“Bisexual,” Remus says.

“Indecisive,” Gideon snorts. 

Sirius knows he hasn’t imagined the bitter edge to it. Remus scowls but turns away, lips pressed together in displeasure. 

“Like Bowie.” James contributes, shooting Gideon a particularly nasty glare. Sirius would almost be impressed if he hadn’t grown up with Walburga Black. Sirius hides a self-satisfied smirk.

“I need a nap.” Remus mumbles, disappearing behind one of the bunk’s curtains. 

An awkward silence settles around them. 

“Gid–” James starts. 

Gideon flushes with shame. “I know, I know. I’m a prat.” 

–

It’s nearly daylight but Sirius can’t sleep. A headache is pounding at his temples, demanding attention and spreading quickly. He pulls the fag way from his lips, turning his head toward the early morning swathe of yellow and pinks. The curtains of the accompanying tour bus flicker, a shadow moving in the low light. 

Remus steps out of the tour bus and scrubs a hand over his face, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. 

Sirius waves and pushes off the bus, “Can’t sleep?”

Remus shakes his head, muffling a yawn with a large calloused hand, hands that speak of late nights with a guitar. Rough from practice, talent obvious in the pockets of toughened skin. 

“Didn’t sleep at all, did you?” Remus' gaze rakes over Sirius’s body, causing goosebumps to spring up on his forearms. 

“Breakfast?” Remus asks. 

Remus and Sirius collect coffees and pastries from a crowded cafe with vinyl seats and a sputtering uncooperative coffee machine. The morning rush is composed of old biddies who coo appreciatively at Sirius and let them cut the line. Remus holds in his laughter until they make it outside, chuckles tapering off when they reach a park bench two blocks away. 

“You ever wonder what you would have done if you didn't do this?” Remus asks abruptly. 

Sirius munches on a pastry, something buttery and cream filled that Remus, who had opted for a plain scone, had glanced at with distaste. 

“I always wanted to be a mechanic.” 

Sirius knows that even if he hadn't escaped his family home for backlit London clubs he would have found some other passion to seek refuge in. He’d always liked motorbikes, courtesy of long afternoons spent handing his uncle Alphard tool after tool while he tinkered with his Triumph TR65 Thunderbird. He had always intended to buy one of his own, fix it up himself like he had been taught. It was really only a matter of time before Sirius’ trust fund would have been revoked, his name removed from the genealogy records. 

“What about you?”

“I always wanted to teach.”

Sirius nods, legs swinging. _Remus would look good in tweed._

“How’d you end up the frontman of a rock band?”

“Bad luck,” Remus deadpans. 

Sirius grins.

“I didn’t originally sing lead. Gideon did at first. But then we came to London and suddenly his guttural, just about passable performances couldn’t cut it, no matter how well we played, no matter how well we wrote.”

Remus shrugs, as if being asked to sing lead was no more likely than being asked to pick up milk. 

“James begged me and well, I’d already moved all the way to London. Figured I’d better give it my all.”

“Just like that?”

Remus shakes his head and laughs, “God, no. I was sick before every show for the first three months.”

“You always want to sing?”

Sirius shrugs. “Seemed the thing to do.” 

It was an omission. Sirius had always wanted to sing. It wasn’t until after Sirius had been smudged and used up that he had gone searching for a way to make that a reality. He had been sick of catering to washed up musicians and producers, nodding serenely even when he knew he could do better, be better. 

“Guess we got lucky,” Remus muses. 

Sirius almost snorts, envy curling in his gut. It’s not that fame had landed into Remus’ lap or anything as simple, but Remus had accidentally stumbled into being frontman. Sirius could not imagine being satisfied with sitting behind a drum set or being recognized only when on stage. Sirius has clawed his way towards his first popular but lyrically unambitious album. He had begged, had literally gotten on his hands and knees, for people at Phoenix Records. 

More than that Remus was surrounded by people who had loved and devoted themselves to him, bandmates who looked towards him despite his fuck ups. That kind of devotion, the kind Remus inspired in others, was staggering and enviable. Sirius had never been worthy of it. 

“You think you’d have been a good teacher?” 

Sunlight creeps towards them, reaching for them. Remus dusts crumbs off his jeans and stands, letting the sunlight turn his hair a ruddy gold. 

“I think I would have been a better man for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a bit slow going but I want to make sure that Remus' recovery and his crumbling relationship with Dora are given the proper attention first. I promise there will be way more wolfstar scenes in the coming chapters!


	5. Quantity

**_November 27th, 1981_ **

“Mrs. Abernathy said that?” Remus murmurs into the phone, not having to feign his scandalized tone. 

Hope chuckles, her voice rising in pitch. “Right there in the drugstore!”

Remus laughs despite himself, imagining the aging Mrs. Abernathy swatting at the poor pharmacist for questioning her prescription for birth control. There’s shuffling from behind him and Remus turns to find Dorcas staring at him, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Remus pales, unwilling to face her wrath at any time of day but especially not after having roused her from sleep. Dorcas was very serious about her sleep.

“Sorry, mum. I have to go.”

Dorcas’ sharp glance softens. 

“Alright, alright. Love you, moonbeam.” Hope says as the phone clicks. 

“Sorry, Dorcas. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No bother. Your mum doing okay?” Dorcas asks as she shuffles over to the kitchenette, rifling through the tea packets she has stashed there. 

“She’s alright, thanks.” 

Remus gazes at her warily as she makes a cuppa. It’s just past five in the morning but the rest of the band is still out. Dorcas didn’t much care for all that, the after parties and such. It was why she had agreed to bunk with Remus and James this time around, she was the least likely to engage in any sort of activity which might tempt Remus out of sobriety. 

Dorcas nods at the sun spilling through the slanted blinds. “You staying up?” 

“I don’t sleep much anymore.” Remus explains, gesturing to his already half empty mug. 

“Top off?” 

Remus nods gratefully as Dorcas pours him hot water, grabbing the sugar from the counter without Remus having to ask. Remus is surprised she knows how he takes his tea. Dorcas was sweet if a bit quick to anger. It’s not that she isn’t committed to the band, it’s just that she’s a bit prickly around anyone who isn’t Marlene, as if talent had been mistakenly dropped in their laps. 

She likes James enough, though that was mostly the result of having met Lily. She mistakenly had faith that Lily would never date a complete moron. James liked to say that it was his most effective ruse, a ruse he’d used at many of his father’s company parties. _She probably would have liked you three years ago_ , Remus thinks dryly. 

Dorcas settles into the sofa beside Remus. 

“You know I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I admire you.”

Remus chokes on his tea. 

“No, it’s true. I saw you guys perform in Camden Town once.”

“My condolences.” Remus mutters, thinking of their first few shows in London. The misshapen way they threw together covers and lyrics, relying on talent instead of practice. God, the first few times he had sung lead he had been trembling and nauseous, his hands shaking so badly he had to forgo playing the guitar.

“You’re the reason I auditioned for the band,” Dorcas admits, shooting him a rare genuine smile. 

Remus stares at her in disbelief. “Me?”

Dorcas forehead creases in displeasure. “Don’t act thick.”

Remus stares at her, trying to work out the quickest possible escape route should it become necessary. Dorcas must read the panic in his expression because she sighs in exasperation. 

“Do you think we’re famous because James is ace on the drums? Or because Marlene is a killer bassist? Or because we have two guitarists too many?”

Remus blinks, gaze darting towards the door. 

“You’re not acting,” Dorcas states. 

“Just thick.”

“We’re famous because of you.” Dorcas explains as if he’s a small child smeared in ice cream. 

Dorcas stares at Remus’ blank expression.

“It’s the lyrics you write, it’s the fervour and grit when you sing, it’s the unassuming way the band differs to you. It’s you. You’re the reason.”

Remus shakes his head in denial. It simply wasn’t true. James had been the one who insisted they start a band, the one who had dragged him by the cuff to London. Gideon had been the one to turn Remus’ words into proper lyrics, the one who pushed and pleaded for Remus to fill the role of lead singer. And that was all without touching upon their talents as musicians. 

Marlene brought a chilling calabre of talent to their music and Dorcas a precision and skill the rest of them lacked, her ability to cobble together instrumental arrangements unparalleled. Frank they could probably do without, but he was good for morale. 

“I loathe to admit it, you know I do, but it’s true,” Dorcas shrugs.

Remus shakes his head, words failing him. Dorcas pats his arm consolingly, as if she’s just delivered devastating news and not one of the nicest compliments Remus has ever received. 

“Rummy?” Dorcas asks, abruptly shifting the topic and pulling a deck of cards from her sleeve. 

Remus nods, nonplussed. Dorcas smiles serenely at him as she deftly shuffles the cards. 

“I’ll get out from under your shadow someday.”

Remus gulps. 

– 

Every time Remus invites Sirius on stage to duet their single it is a test of immense willpower. Remus has no intention of acting on the slowly unfurling heat in his gut when Sirius strides onstage, hair wild and sweat slicked, but guilt eats at him nonetheless. _As it should_ , Remus thinks. His infatuation with Sirius, which he had once assumed to be fleeting insanity, has grown in the last few days. Passing attraction enhanced by their close quarters and joint performances. 

It’s not as if there’s anything particularly seductive about Sirius on stage. Nothing so obvious as gyrating against the mic or pandering to the crowd, no attempts to draw the first few rows backstage for a more personal performance as Marlene and Frank are wont to do. 

It’s in the languid roll of his hips, the slow tilt of his head and the gentle caress of the microphone. He is electric and all consuming, drawing the gaze of every member in the crowd. Remus may as well be sound equipment for all the attention he receives while Sirius is on stage. It doesn’t help that Sirius has taken to wearing these loose, wide cut tank tops which expose practically his entire chest. 

Remus leans towards the microphone, turning towards Sirius to sing the chorus in tandem. Sirius smirks and prances towards him, leaving hardly a breath of space between his lips and the microphone. 

“Suspicions and liquor, hair like bubblegum. Bet you know that I lied, bet you know that I’m numb.”

Sirius' voice is thick and gravely and it goes straight to Remus’ cock. This close all Remus can see is the slope of Sirius’ neck, the collar of his shirt low enough to reveal the dip of his collarbones.

“I call you high strung, hand on my thigh, lies on my tongue.”

Remus' breath hitches and he stumbles over the rest of the chorus. 

“How can this be love?”

The crowd swells with applause and Sirius sheds his tank top as he leaves the stage. A chorus of jeers rise up and Sirius laughs merrily, his pupils dime-sized. Remus chest tightens imperceptibly. 

Afterwards, Remus escapes to a vacated dressing room and shuts the door tightly behind him. The ruckus of backstage washes over him, the shouts and laughter which had once filled him with elation are now grating. Remus ruffles his hair, exhausted and glad for this pocket of isolation. He reaches for the phone. 

“Hello?” Dora answers, voice heavy with sleep.

“Sorry, love.” Remus mumbles into the receiver, wincing as another chorus of shouts goes up.

“What’s wrong?” 

Remus can hear the rustling of sheets as Dora escapes the bedroom so as not to wake Teddy. 

“Nothing. I just needed to hear your voice.”

“That bad?” Dora asks softly.

Remus is too tired to lie. It’s been a little over a week and already he feels tight with nerves, frayed from the effort of turning a blind eye to his bandmates’ bloodshot eyes and frantic energy. That, coupled with his dizzying attraction to Sirius, has made for a very trying tour. 

“Yah, that bad.” He murmurs. 

Dorcas makes a sympathetic noise. “Come home.”

Remus closes his eyes, picturing the rumpled sheets and towering record collection, the jumpers strewn across the couch and the unfailingly messy kitchen. It doesn’t bring him as much comfort as it should. 

“I have to see this through.” 

Dora clucks her tongue in disapproval. There’s a soft rap on the door. 

Dorcas’ soothing voice pours through. “Remus?”

Remus sighs, relieved it’s her and not Frank looking for privacy. Dorcas’ company has been a salve to his frazzled nerves. She has become a savant at knowing when Remus is overwhelmed and is always close at hand with distractions and late night cuppas. She had destroyed him at several hands of rummy and even lent Remus her dog-eared copy of _Jane Eyre_ , which Remus had been devouring out of sight of his other bandmates.

“Coming,” He calls out. 

Dora huffs, “Night, Remus. Tell Dorcas hullo for me.” 

Remus grunts and scrubs a hand over his face. The phone clicks.

–

Remus is staring at the opulent fountain, which dominates the hotel lobby in Belfast, with a grimace. He has hardly seen anything so tacky. Dorcas is combing through a travel guide beside him, pointing to the interesting bits every few seconds. Suddenly, a familiar head of red hair steps through the enormous glass doors. Remus slumps down, groaning lightly. Marlene, sprawled next to him on those little settees all hotels seem to have, shoots him a smirk and pats his thigh consolingly. 

“What happened to the man who fistfights roadies.”

Remus cocks an eyebrow. “He’s sober.”

Marlene winces faintly while Sirius and Dorcas share twin snorts of amusement. Remus grins at them. Sirius winks and cranes his neck to see what all the fuss is about, perking up when he sees Lily.

“Red!” Sirius cries as Lily throws herself into his arms. 

Remus feels a twinge of jealousy at the easy manner with which they greet each other. Lily pulls away from Sirius and greets the rest of them with a wide smile, scanning the lobby for James. He’s checking them in, graciously having offered to take on the task with the not so subtle goal of ensuring Lily and him receive their own room. 

“There are going to be rumours about you stealing my girl, aren’t there?” James asks, already resigned as he strides towards him. 

Sirius sticks his tongue out at James and slings an arm around Lily’s shoulders. James dolls out the hotel keys with an eye roll. 

“Too pretty for me.” Lily wrinkles her nose. 

Sirius splutters, genuinely affronted. James raises a dubious eyebrow and waves at Remus. 

“You liked Remus in sixth form and he’s plenty pretty.”

“You know not enough people tell me that,” Remus muses.

“Anytime, mate.”

“The hoards of screaming girls don’t do it for you?” Marlene asks.

“Quality over quantity,” Remus says sagely. 

Everyone stares at him, various emotions playing across their faces. Lily looks as if she’s physically biting her tongue to stop from saying something she’ll regret. Luckily, Frank wanders over at just the right moment, champagne bottle in hand. 

“Guess we’re not talking about our last tour then.”

For all of Frank’s faults he does have a way of cutting to the heart of the matter. Lily holds up a hand to muffle a laugh. 

“If you’ll remember I also chatted up a lamp one night,” Remus adds.

“I believe it was a coat rack.”

“Thank you, Prongs.”

“Anytime, mate.”

“I wouldn’t say that with Gideon around,” Marlene mutters.

Remus stiffens and the others sober up somewhat.

“What’s the difference between a ginger and a lamp?” Sirius asks abruptly. 

“Coat rack,” James corrects.

Sirius grins, “The coat rack gets laid.”

Lily gives an indignant huff and swats at Sirius with her purse. Remus blinks at him. 

Marlene groans, “That was lame.”

“Funny, but inaccurate.” Dorcas points out. 

“I have more.” 

“Did you research these?” James asks, torn between amusement and disapproval.

“What do you call a gay ginger?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Lily tilts her head. “That’s very specific.”

“Flaming,” Remus answers after a moment’s pause. 

“Where is Gideon?” Marlene asks as they meander towards the elevators. 

“Probably in hell,” Frank puts in a touch gleefully. 

Marlene groans again. Sirius gives Frank a high five.

“Really, Frank?” Dorcas asks.

“It’s about time someone else takes some of the heat.”

Sirius nods, glad for the newfound support. “How does a redhead reach orgasm?” 

Lily pushes Sirius into the monstrous fountain without a backwards glance. 

“Alone!” Sirius yells, as he sits in several inches of green tinged water, rubbing at his bruised appendages indignantly. 

Lily flashes him a two-fingered salute. 

–

Remus waves off everyone’s attempts to draw him into conversation, eager to escape to his hotel room and bury himself under a mountain of clean sheets and room service. He’s side tracked from his very urgent goal by Frank, pupils blown wide. Remus feels a vicious stab of want and jealousy. His throat tightens with it, swallowing becomes a difficult task. A physiological response to the ache for something he can no longer indulge in. 

Remus scrambles outside. He takes long purposeful lungfuls of smoky crisp air. He feels ridiculous, as if a couple deep breaths could lessen this need. The door slides open, Lily pokes her head out. 

“Thought that was you. You alright?”

Remus laughs, “I think I would kill a man for a little blow right now.”

Lily shuts the door behind her.

“Not alright, then.”

“No.” Remus throws his head back. “No, I’m not alright.”

“Think you will be someday?”

“God, I hope so. Bit pointless otherwise, innit?”

Lily nods pensively. 

“James and I are going to grab a bite. You should come.”

Remus turns towards her in surprise. It’s the first such invitation she’s extended to him since he’d been released from rehab. 

“We’re not okay.” Lily states quietly, words heavy in the night air. “I know you weren’t in your right mind. I know you’re sick. I know that. I’m not heartless.”

Lily sucks on her bottom lip and runs her fingers through her hair. _She’s nervous_ , Remus realizes dumbfounded.

“But you crushed Dora. She was home alone, no one to soothe her worries, no one to fetch her ridiculous food cravings. She drove herself to the hospital while she was in labour. You broke your poor mother’s heart. I had to relay news to her which sounded like a fucking propaganda poster. How do you tell a mother her little boy shoots so much smack he can’t remember his own name, nevermind remember to pick up the phone?”

Remus opens his mouth, to say what he doesn’t know. 

Lily holds up a hand. “Let me finish.”

She’s rehearsed this little speech, in the mirror no doubt, like she used to do for orals in sixth form. 

“You had James shaking with worry, guilt ridden for having dragged you into this life. You had me answering the phone always expecting the worst, always terrified that James’ next call was going to be from the emergency room.”

Lily stares at him and there’s compassion in her eyes, buried under all the anger. 

“I can’t forgive that. Not yet.” 

“Is James still–”

Lily shakes her head, anger thawing. 

“James, god bless him, can’t hold a grudge to save his life. That’s what he has me for.”

“I’m refraining from making a redhead with a hot temper joke.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “Sirius is a horrible influence.”

“What? No longer fond of your new best friend, Red?”

“Jealous?”

“Just feel sorry for the poor bloke is all.”

“Right,” Lily says dryly. 

There’s a pause while Remus lights a cigarette, fingers steady once again. He offers one to Lily, who nods guiltily and puffs into the night sky. 

“Remember when James forgave Dearborn for stealing his lunch?”

Remus chuckles, nodding. “He would pack extra.”

“Pansy,” Lily murmurs. 

“Didn’t you poison Dearborn for doing the same?”

“It was a mild allergic reaction.”

“Right. Well, in that case I have a mild drug addiction.”

Lily barks a laugh and stubs out her cigarette, crushing it under her heel. 

“C’mon, I want curry.”

She threads an arm through his and drags him backstage once again, this time the hubbub seems less like a temptation and more like white noise. 

–

Gideon is monopolizing the bartender by rattling off a lengthy order which will no doubt end with someone naked or missing. Sirius leans back in his chair, watching as Marlene and Frank discuss the merits of some new band, The Bongs or Bassists or something. From the way Marlene is punctuating every word with a scoff Sirius doesn't think it looks too good for them.

Lily, James and Remus had disappeared somewhere after the show, pointedly not extending the invitation to the rest of them. James looked a little too gleeful about curry. Fixing the rift, if Sirius had to guess. 

Sirius scans the bar. He's growing restless and his senses are resurfacing quickly. Too quickly for his liking. Marlene gives him a long look as he excuses himself. 

Sirius snorts blow off the bathroom counter, unbothered by the two other occupants. He stares down at his palm, unsure what he’d stashed in his jacket earlier that day. He pops four just in case. When he returns, empty glasses litter the table top and Marlene and Frank have decided to meet the rest of the crew at the hotel. 

Hours later, when Sirius is blinking at Frank’s attempts to seduce one of the groupies and Marlene has disappeared, he is overwhelmed with the urgent need to see Remus. He doesn’t think much farther ahead than that, eager just to set his eyes on the edge of Remus’ jaw and the crinkles around his eyes. 

Franks stares at him, “Why are you pouting?” 

Sirius sucks his bottom lip between his teeth petulantly. He fumbles at his jacket pockets, leather smooth under his clammy hands. He swallows two pills dry and reaches for the nearest unopened champagne bottle. When he can’t get the cork off he shatters the neck against the coffee table. It splinters.

He hardly knows Remus. They’ve hardly exchanged more than a handful of words, an accumulation of conversations that he can count on two hands. There is no reason Sirius should be this enamoured with the man. Even if said man was talented and lovely and quick witted.

 _And taken_ , Sirius reminds himself viciously. 

Sirius stands with some effort, wobbling precariously and clutching at Frank’s shoulder for support. 

“I need to–” He trailed off. No one was listening. Frank had gone back to the groupie, trailing a hand up her thigh none too subtly, and the rest of the room was lost to a haze of intoxication. 

Sirius rides the elevator two floors, leaning heavily against the railing. He knocks at Remus’ door, recognizing the number even in his altered state. After several long minutes he slumps down to the floor, pressing his back against the door. Suddenly he’s blinking blearily and staring up at the ceiling. 

“Sirius?” Remus asks, voice gruff with sleep. 

Sirius waves from his position on the floor, having fallen across the threshold. 

“Jesus fucking christ.”

Remus hooks his hands under Sirius’ armpits, hauling him to his feet. He sways and Remus clutches at his forearms to keep him upright. 

“Impressive.” Sirius says admiringly, smile lopsided. 

Remus scowls and Sirius’ smile fades. 

“You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding.” Remus repeats, gesturing to Sirius’ palm. 

Sirius looks down in surprise. He is bleeding, quite profusely in fact. Rivulets of blood have traveled across his forearms and palm, staining his jeans and dripping onto the carpet. 

Sirius frowns, “Thank fuck this carpet is hideous.”

Remus swears under his breath and drags Sirius inside the room, forcing him into the desk chair. Remus disappears into the bathroom, emerging with several clean towels, and then strides towards the mini fridge, stilling for a fraction before rummaging inside. He pulls out a small bottle of vodka. Sirius barely has time to scrunch his eyebrows in confusion before Remus grabs his wrist and pours vodka into the open wound. Sirius cries out in pain. 

“What did I ever do to you?” Sirius mumbles, cradling his palm to his chest. 

Remus rolls his eyes heavenward. 

“Give me your hand.”

Sirius warily extends his arm towards Remus. Remus wraps a towel around the wound, tight enough to hurt. Sirius whimpers pathetically as Remus turns his palm over to secure the makeshift bandage. 

“You’re going to need stitches.”

“That’s fine. Stitches aren’t so bad.”

Remus gazes at him steadily and then sighs. 

“You can sleep here.” 

“No, I can’t.” Sirius says slowly. “You sleep here.”

“It’s morning anyway.” 

Remus points towards the parted curtains, light pouring onto the thankfully hideous carpet. Sirius nods tiredly, palm beginning to throb. Remus helps him towards the bed and Sirius sinks into the plush mattress with a grateful sigh.

–

Sirius blinks awake, hair ruffled and mouth dry. He doesn’t remember getting to bed but that’s not unusual these days. At least he made it to the bed this time. Two days ago he had woken up with his feet in the hotel pool, Gideon snoring in the hot tub. He sits up slowly, head protesting any sudden movements. 

There’s a glass of water by the bed. Sirius stares at it for an inordinately long time. That was unusual. He reaches it for it and stares at his towel bundled palm with surprise. Sirius raises his head as the door opens and Remus steps inside, paper bag in hand. 

“Oh, good.” Remus says, perching on the side of the bed. Sirius raises a brow. 

“Is there a reason you’re bringing me breakfast? In bed no less?”

Not that Sirius was complaining, he was just curious. 

“It’s just good manners considering you woke up in my bed.”

Remus stops, as if realizing the implication of that statement, and flushes. Sirius stares at the lovely dusting of pink across his cheeks. Sirius scans the room, finally noticing an unfamiliar suitcase leaning against the dresser and the collection of jeans strewn across the desk chair.

“You cut yourself last night.” Remus explains as he unloads the paper bag, presenting Sirius with a greasy breakfast concoction pressed into a bun. 

“A champagne bottle,” Sirius remembers.

“You were pretty out of it when you showed up.”

“Sorry bout that.” Sirius unwraps the sandwich, suddenly ravenous.

“You can’t do that, Sirius.” 

“What?”

“You can’t show up at my room out of your fucking head,” Remus barks. 

Sirius stares in shock. Remus is impassive, scarily so, capable of delivering snide remarks with the same tone he used to order pizza. Sirius has never heard him raise his voice, not even during heated debates among the band. Remus simply delivered his remark with the cold certainty that he would be heard above the din. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just–” Sirius stumbles over his words, feeling young and naive and desperate for approval. 

“You just what?” Remus sighs, suddenly seeming much older than his twenty-something years.

“I wanted to see you.” Sirius mutters, eyes downcast.

“Sirius.” Remus says softly, apologetically almost.

Sirius waves him off, uninterested in placations and empty words. Admitting to a drug fuelled flight of fancy seemed distasteful in the morning light. 

“I disinfected your hand last night.”

“Thanks. I know–”

“With vodka.” 

Sirius eyes widen with realization. 

“You didn’t–”

Remus shakes his head. He clenches his fists, sheets bunching under his fingers. 

"It's just–" Remus stops, pressing his lips together. "This is hard enough without being reminded of what I can't have."

Sirius looks away, hiding a frown. “Understood.”

Remus hums, eyes lingering on the curve of Sirius' lips. 


	6. Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use of gay slur and mentions of child abuse.

**_November 30th, 1981_ **

Remus stares up at the Trinity College library with ill disguised awe. The building itself is nondescript, all white limestone and mundane archways, but the inside is lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves and decorated in warm hues. Remus feels as if he’s stepped into another time. Sirius fidgets next to him, wringing his hands and glancing to and fro like an impatient child. Remus drags him deeper into the long room of the old library before he can muster up a complaint. 

Sirius raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “It’s a harp.”

The harp is made of wide solid wood, dusty and slightly dented. 

“Brian Boru’s harp. Dating back to the 15th century.”

“An old harp,” Sirius corrects. 

“Look familiar?” Remus prompts.

Sirius stares at Remus in exasperation before turning back to the instrument. His eyes widen and he snaps victoriously, it echoes. Remus winces. 

“Guiness.”

Remus nods happily before steering Sirius towards the Book of Kells and the copy of the Irish Proclamation. Together they traverse older sections of the library, Remus reverently scanning the shelves and peppering in facts about Trinity College’ literary alumni while Sirius muffles a yawn. Finally, when Sirius’ eyelids truly begin to droop and his stomach growls loud enough to startle the couple next to them, Remus takes pity on him and announces the end of their tour. 

They stroll across Grafton Street, which is already teeming with tourists and covered in a thin layer of frost. Sirius all but manhandles Remus into the nearest pub. He flashes the waitress the same devastating smirk which has the sound technicians catering to his whims and the roadies fetching him any inane object he asks for. They receive pints and chips within seconds. 

“It takes longer to fry these.” Remus mutters, glancing around to see whose chips they’ve inevitably stolen. 

Sirius plops a chip in his mouth and winks. 

“Why the fascination with Dublin?”

Remus dips a chip into a glob ketchup and chews slowly, formulating his thoughts. 

“It’s where my parents met.” Remus says, pushing his pint towards Sirius. Sirius glances at the glass sheepishly, inevitably having forgotten about Remus' sobriety. 

“Trinity?”

Remus nods. He doesn’t like to dwell on his parents’ failed marriage or his father’s abrupt departure from their lives. Sirius quietly lets the subject drop, no doubt sensing Remus’ unease. 

“You wanted to attend Trinity.”

Remus blinks. 

“I did, yes.”

“English lit?”

Remus hums in agreement. 

“Think that’s where you’d be right now, if things had turned out different?”

Remus laughs ruefully.

“No, nothing would have stopped me from following James to London. Maybe after a few years, if nothing came of it.”

“Think this will ever stop feeling like a fluke?”

“Maybe.”

“I always think of what could have been, as if at any moment this could be taken away and I’ll need a fallback option.”

“Which is?”

“Grovel for my inheritance.” 

Remus barks a laugh, choking on a chip. Sirius smiles widely.

Remus wipes at his mouth. “Where would you be now, really?”

“Probably sleeping on someone’s couch, calling my brother pretending I don’t need money and acting outraged when he offers.”

“Not a mechanic?”

Sirius grins into his pint. “If I was lucky.”

“Think in a few years we’ll stop talking about what could have been?”

Sirius hums, “Maybe.”

Remus smiles and Sirius glides a chip through the ketchup. 

–

That night, after Dublin has given them an uproarious applause and the band has disappeared somewhere among the cobblestone, Remus falls back onto the hotel mattress with a relieved sigh. There’s only a handful of days left. A handful of days and he’ll be home, a sticky agitated toddler in his arms. _I’m going to make it_ , he thinks for the first time since this all started. He smiles and reaches for the phone.

Dora picks up on the third ring. “Hullo?”

“I want to fix this.” Remus says softly, without greeting her. “I want to be there for Teddy.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. Dora shuffles and Remus hears the tell tale snick of the window latch being pried open. Remus grins, Dora is taking a cigarette to the fire escape and watching Teddy through the closed window. 

Dora snorts around a cigarette, “What about me?”

Remus stumbles, his sudden confidence disappearing almost as quickly as it had appeared. 

“That’s our problem isn't it?” Dora sighs. 

Remus imagines her pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“We stayed together for the baby. God, we’re that couple. Using a child to drag our deadweight relationship along.”

Remus' heart falters, his palms sweaty. “Dora, you know I love you.”

“Just not enough, right?” 

Remus is mute, unsure how to reassure her in a way which doesn’t ring false. Dora hangs up. 

–

Remus strums his guitar, fingers nimbly plucking at the chords. He’s hardly paying attention to the tune, gaze drifting towards where Sirius and James are overcome with guffaws. Frank stands off to the side with a put upon expression. The tour bus is made smaller by sheer number of people aboard, everyone basking in the elation of a nearly completed tour. Only two more cities to go. 

“First thing you’re going to do?” Frank shouts above the din. 

“Lily!” James cries without hesitation, leaning back unashamedly. The rest of the band groans. Marlene throws a water bottle at him. It bounces ineffectually off his thick skull. 

“Find a nice bloke and–” Gideon makes an indecent gesture. Frank snorts and high fives him. 

“Jesus.” Dorcas mutters, crinkling her nose in distaste.

“Oh, and I suspect you’ll do laundry and watch telly?”

Dorcas arches an eyebrow. “It’s none of your business.”

“I am going to get falling down drunk and go home with the bartender from Fortune’s.” Marlene offers. 

The statement is met with encouraging and lascivious jeers. Dorcas throws up her arms in defeat and joins in with a piercing wolf whistle. 

“Which one?” Remus asks amusedly. 

“I’m not picky.”

“I have a date.” Frank announces. Every single person in the bus raises their eyebrows in surprise, even the bus driver furrows his brow in confusion. 

“It’s true!” Frank cries. The band titters, exchanging dubious looks. 

“So do I, actually.” Sirius smiles.

Remus' stomach tightens, his eyes flit towards Sirius searchingly. He’s smiling softly, toying with the sleeve of his sweater, wistful and distracted. Remus’s jaw clenches. 

“Well, that I believe.” Gideon mutters with a leer. 

Frank slaps him upside the head. Gideon yelps. 

“What about you, Moony?” James asks, with a knowing glance. Remus winces, he’d been hoping they’d forgotten about him. Fading into the wallpaper was a particular skill of his, though it never worked quite as effectively with James around.

“I will be spending a quiet evening with my son.” Remus admits sheepishly, throwing up his arms and welcoming the taunts. 

Frank boos him and Marlene shakes her head in dismay. 

“I'll use The Stones to rock him to sleep."

“Does that work?”

Remus chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Actually, he quite likes Sirius’ album for some reason.”

“For some reason?” Sirius splutters. 

The band turns to him with raised eyebrows. 

Sirius slouches, “Well, yeah okay.”

Frank leans over to rib Sirius. The rest of the band devolves into fringe groups, half of them departing for naps. James slides into the booth across from Remus, leaving Sirius to fend for himself against Frank’s half-hearted attempts to garner a laugh from the others. 

“Tonks excited to have you home?” James asks, kindly not mentioning how Remus' gaze has strayed recently. They’ll be hell to pay when Lily picks up on it though.

“I think–” Remus falters, eyes downcast. “I think I might be moving back into Potter Palace.”

James' face falls, genuine devastation written on his face. _Not surprise though_ , Remus notes. 

“What happened?”

“I just don’t think it’s going to work.”

James lets the words fall between them, prying no further. There’s no need to clarify the ambiguous statement or give voice to obvious failings. 

“Sorry, mate.”

Remus shrugs, guilt ridden enough as it is. As if his budding attraction to Sirius had not made his flawed devotion obvious, saying it out loud, to James no less, makes the whole charade seem so obvious. Dora had it right on the phone, their relationship was deadweight. 

–

Remus scrubs a hand through his sweaty curls, taking long pulls from a water bottle as he comes off stage. He pours whatever’s left down his front like the cliché that he is. James whistles and Remus gives him the two-fingered salute. His voice croaks as he tries to call out for Marlene, who disappears around the corner. Remus shakes out his hair and follows. 

Sirius stumbles out of one the storage lockers, shrugging on his t-shirt with a smothered laugh. One of the stagehands, Tony something, falls out after him, pressing a searching hand to his lower back. Sirius smiles at Remus with bloodshot eyes, combing a hand through tangled locks.

“Hey, mate.” Sirius nods at him, words slurred.

Tony swats at Sirius backside and trots off, hitching his jeans high on his hips. Sirius rolls his eyes good naturedly and takes out a pack of fags, offering one to Remus. Remus shakes his head, blinking as Sirius steadies himself against the wall to light it. 

Remus clenches his fists and tries to breathe through the erratic thump of his heart, beating in time to his jealous musings. 

“Have you seen Marls?” Remus asks apropos of nothing. The alternative would be to grab hold of Sirius and demand why. _Why him? Why not me?_

 _It could have been you_ , his mind spitefully reminds him. Remus feels no small amount of shame for the way in which regrets claws at him. Even though he knows, studying Sirius' frantic bloodshot eyes and lazy movements, that he would have been nothing but a warm body in a trail of other discarded warm bodies. Drug addled lust meant less than nothing. Remus would know. 

Sirius points to somewhere behind Remus. Remus doesn’t turn around, instead scanning Sirius’ face.

“You okay?” Remus asks, expecting a platitude even before it leaves Sirius lips.

Sirius frowns, “I’m fine.”

Remus nods, knowing it's a lie but unable to do much more. He leaves Sirius scowling at his back as he makes his way towards Marlene. He realizes his hands are shaking, thrumming with envy. Envy which is partly for the undeserving roadie and partly for pill on the edge of Sirius' tongue. 

–

Sirius is on the balcony with a fag and a tumbler of whiskey. The sun is only just crawling over the horizon but sleep has been evading him for hours. This in itself isn’t unusual, however, it has been months since his nightmares have taken on such vivid colour. Sirius has a knack for staying comfortably numb, blurring the edges of his nightmares until only his choked breathing and sweat soaked sheets indicate that a bout of terror has occurred. 

Sirius looks over his shoulder at the roadie in his bed, _Todd or Tom or something_. Sirius grimaces and downs the remainder of his drink. He rouses the man with a pillow to the head and an apologetic explanation of an early morning rehearsal. Tony, as it turns out, waves him off with a laugh and steals a fag on his way out the door. 

Sirius goes to the bathroom and stares at the deep grooves under his eyes. There’s not much for it, he thinks as he glides an eyeliner pen under his eyes. He’s the first one downstairs so he waits for the others in the lobby, head in his hands. 

James claps him on the shoulder. “You look like shite.”

Sirius groans, “Then I look better than I feel.”

James snorts a laugh, “Good night?”

“The bits I remember.” 

James shakes his head ruefully. “I told you not to let Dorcas mix you a drink.”

“I’ve never even seen the bint drink.” Sirius grumbles pathetically, closing his eyes. “How was I supposed to know she brews poison.”

Remus sidles up to them. “Double, double toil and trouble.”

“Did someone summon me?” Dorcas calls as she exits the elevator with a flourish, the others following after her. Frank is hobbling and Marlene and Gideon meander towards them slowly, all of them looking far worse than even Sirius. 

“Spooky.” James mumbles. Remus makes a sign of the cross, lips twitching. 

Sirius groans as he stands, using James’ shoulder as a crutch. 

“What happened last night?” Marlene moans pitifully, laying her head in the crook of Gideon’s shoulder. 

“Fire burn and cauldron bubble,” Remus mutters under his breath. 

Dorcas sniggers. 

**–**

Sirius stares out at the rolling greenery wistfully, watching as cottages fade into pastures. They’re halfway to Cork, the last destination in their tour. The others, minus Dorcas and Remus, had celebrated prematurely and were currently napping off brutal hangovers. Sirius was fighting his off with a whisky sour. Remus fiddles with song lyrics beside him, murmuring quietly and then shaking his head and starting over every few minutes. 

“You said something the other night.” Remus says abruptly.

Sirius stiffens, not having to ask what night. He combs through what little he can remember of that night frantically. He can’t remember much beyond Remus’ sleep ruffled curls and the smell of Remus’ sheets. 

“We don’t have to–” Sirius bites his lip.

“You said something about stitches.”

Sirius fights to keep his expression even, tracing at the faded scar which winds itself around his forearm absentmindedly. He stills his fingers, tugging the sleeve of his jacket lower. 

“I was high.”

“I had deduced that for myself, thanks.”

Sirius keeps his eyes on the skyline, fighting the urge to fidget under Remus’ scrutiny. He knows he doesn’t have to share, that Remus would likely let the subject die a swift death should he wish it.

“My parents and I have a difficult relationship.” Sirius snorts. “To put it lightly.”

Sirius purses his lips, considering how much to divulge. Remus hardly seems the judgemental type and even if he was it’s not like Sirius would be able to discern it. He knows Remus can keep a secret, given that at least one-third of the band are poofters and Remus illegitimate child has been kept out of the tabloids.

“I left home when I was fourteen.”

Shock flickers briefly across Remus’ face, so quickly Sirius may have imagined it. 

“They were unkind and bigotted. They didn’t much care for their fag of a son.”

There’s no need for colourful descriptions or flowery imagery, no need to paint Remus a blood stained picture of Sirius' childhood. That’s already more than anyone else knows. 

“I left home and went on to bigger and better things.” Sirius waves at their surroundings.

“Those four years?” Remus asks gently.

Sirius tenses, the caress of Remus’ voice teetering on the edge of pity. 

“Couch surfing, open mic nights, hotels.” Sirius rattles off, trying not to dwell on those aimless years when his worth was measured by how good he looked on his knees. It had been fun for a while, when Sirius had been young and drunk on his ability to enthrall almost anyone, even girls he had no interest in. The shine had faded with the first press of bruising fingers.

“My dad left when I was six.”

Sirius startles out of his reverie at Remus' voice. Sirius gives him a querying look.

Remus peers at Sirius earnestly, “Secret for secret, right? Last I heard he was gallivanting around Germany. Though that was years ago now.”

“My parents live twenty minutes from my flat.”

Remus cocks an eyebrow. “That’s worse.”

Sirius blurts a laugh in surprise. 

“You don’t speak at all?” Remus asks. 

“Only to my little brother occasionally.”

They sit in strained silence for a moment or two. 

“Well, I think you would do well to write a song about it.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Is that supposed to be therapeutic?”

“Oh, I have no idea.” Remus says dryly. “But it can never hurt to profit from it.”

Sirius laughs as Remus slides him a pen and pad of paper. 

Remus taps the blank page, “To the next great Sirius Black album.”

“Fuck them.” Sirius cries with renewed purpose as he begins to scribble in the margins. 

“I’m not sure Peter would approve that title.”

–

Sirius clutches at the door frame, swaying. He stares at the kaleidoscope of wallpaper patterns in wonder, tilting his head with a giggle. His fingers are slippery around the rim of the ice bucket. Right, he is on a mission. Sirius makes to turn towards the ice machine when he spots a figure at the end of the hallway. He squints, spotting Remus pacing back and forth. Sirius approaches with all the grace he possesses, which at the moment is not very much. 

Remus stares at Sirius, his curls are sleep ruffled and his feet are bare. There’s a small smile on his face as he says something too low for Sirius to hear. 

Sirius blinks and holds up the ice bucket. “I’m getting ice.”

Sirius realizes belatedly that Remus is not talking to him, but rather someone on the phone. He’s dragged the phone into the hallway, the cord dangling over the threshold of his room. Sirius sees Dorcas perched on the bed watching telly through the open door. Remus hangs up the phone and turns towards Sirius. 

“Sorry, Dorcas hates to miss her program.”

“Who was that?” Sirius asks dumbly, staring at the dusting of freckles across Remus’ nose rather intently. He wonders where else Remus has freckles. 

“My sponsor.” Remus answers unabashedly. 

“Oh,” Sirius scuffs his heel. “What’s he like?”

“He wears an eye patch.”

Sirius blinks. 

“He’s cool.” 

Sirius nods, “Okay.” 

Remus' eyes rake across Sirius' body. Sirius fidgets under the scrutiny. He should really go get the ice before it melts. Remus' eyes halt around Sirius’ navel and that’s when he remembers that he had borrowed one of Marlene’s t-shirts, leaving his midriff exposed. 

“Marlene says I look good in it.” Sirius smirks. 

Remus clears his throat, “It’s nice.”

“She said dashing.”

“Dashing, then.”

Sirius plucks at the offending fabric with a smile. When he looks up Remus is studying him with far more scrutiny.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you okay?” Remus asks. 

Sirius rolls his eyes and gives Remus a withering glare. Or as withering a glare as he can give with pupils blown wide. 

“You’re clean now, so what? You want to look down your nose at the rest of us who still want to have a little fun?”

“That’s not it. I’ve just been where you are, is all.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Remus shrugs. “Somewhere similar then.”

“So, what? You’re cured now?” Sirius asks mockingly. 

Remus blinks slowly, impassive, impossible to rattle. Sirius bites his lip in frustration, feeling young and inexperienced, as if preparing for a scolding from a teacher or a nun.

“I’m not cured. You can’t cure what I have.”

Remus shrugs. Sirius is begrudgingly impressed at the way Remus discusses such things as if rattling off the weekly forecast. 

“I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict, and I will always be an alcoholic and a drug addict. If I make it twenty years sober I will still be an alcoholic and a drug addict.”

Sirius' anger deflates quickly, “Is it worth it?”

Remus laughs, there’s no humour in it. 

“I’m getting really sick of people asking me that.”

–

Sirius glares at the early morning sun, slumping in his seat and pushing his sunglasses up his nose. They’re at the airport, monopolizing the lounge and readying for their departure to London. The tour has been concluded with little fanfare, everyone exhausted and eager to get home. Sirius' behaviour the previous night is a source of embarrassment for him, even though he would rather Remus kept his opinions to himself. Remus had smiled at him in greeting that morning though, making no mention of last night and acting for all the world like Sirius had not rebuffed his efforts to help in a rather juvenile fashion. 

Sirius eyes dart towards Remus now and he frowns when he notices the band at the other end of the lounge, clumped together and whispering madly, darting looks at him every once and awhile. They get up as one, flocking towards him like the paparazzi. 

“Sirius Black.” Frank begins ominously, lowering his voice for dramatic effect. There’s an unnecessarily lengthy pause in which Sirius begins to grow nervous.

James rolls his eyes. “We would like to ask you to join the band.”

Sirius gapes, head swivelling between them. “Really?”

“It was unanimous.” Remus’ lips twitch. 

“You could say no.” Dorcas picks at her nails, hardly deigning to look up. 

Gideon grins lazily. “You wouldn’t break out hearts like that, would you Sirius?” 

“I wouldn’t dare.” Sirius smiles widely. “I think I could do with a band.”

Marlene opens her arms. “Welcome to The Six.”


	7. Palace

**_December 7th, 1981_ **

Dora leans against the doorframe, arms crossed as she watches Remus cobble together his belongings. She's said little in the hour since Remus has been home. They’ve foregone pleasantries in favour of the stilted silence they’ve grown accustomed to. Teddy is lying on the bed with his foot in his mouth. Remus smiles down at him softly, screwing up his face until Teddy laughs. 

James and Gideon are loitering downstairs, the van already half full of boxes. They’ve only been in London a handful of hours and yet they had refused to let Remus come alone. Gideon is snoring slouched against the wheel but it's the thought that counts. 

Remus throws odds and ends into a duffle bag, swiping his reading glasses from the nightstand and lingering over the photo of him and Dora in Brighton. The better part of Dora’s face is obscured by her hair, bubblegum pink. Remus has an arm slung around her midsection. They’re pressed close together, affection obvious. 

Remus picks up the frame, tilting it towards her. “Do you remember being this happy?” 

Dora laughs, “I got food poisoning that night.”

“Really?” 

Remus looks down at the picture, trying to piece together the details of that trip. He has a vague recollection of holding back pink locks while Dora heaved over the porcelain rim. 

“We sat on the bathroom floor all night.” Remus says, remembering the way he’d dabbed at Dora’s sweaty brow and murmured platitudes until Dora had told him to _shut the fuck up,_ _you lucky bastard._

“You read me Lord of the Rings.” Dora murmurs, winding her arms tightly around herself.

Remus and Dora share a soft look, four years of longing and love between them. They’d been happy, deliriously happy for a time, and it was surreal to stand before her now and struggle for words. Remus places the picture frame in his duffle, doing up the zipper without any further ceremony. 

James pokes his head in, “Ready?”

Remus nods and points to the last box. “Grab that for me?”

James scoots around Dora, giving her an awkward smile before leaning over and grabbing the designated box. He grunts and teeters as he lifts it, disappearing down the hall once again. Remus hefts the duffle over his shoulder, gazing at the remnants of the flat they had shared for nearly two years. 

“I’m sorry, Dora.” Remus says again, lifting Teddy from the bed and cuddling him close. 

Dora huffs and pushes away from the wall. 

“Not that I don’t love to see you grovel–” 

Remus gives a weak chuckle. 

“But please stop apologizing. Let’s just focus on Teddy.”

“I’ll call you next week,” Remus promises. 

“Earlier. He’ll miss you.” 

Remus looks down at Teddy and tightens his hold. Remus’ heart constricts at the thought of no longer putting him to bed or waking to his cries. Dora follows Remus downstairs, seeming to understand that he’s not quite ready to relinquish his hold on Teddy. They linger on the sidewalk, Gideon and James politely looking the other way. 

After several long minutes Remus slides into the backseat of Gideon’s van. Remus knows he hasn’t imagined the way Gideon’s glance lingers on him as they glide into London traffic in halting stretches. Remus keeps his eyes on Dora, who stands on the sidewalk and waves. Teddy’s eyes are already puffy with tears. 

_God, what a mess,_ Remus thinks, trying to stamp down a bubble of hysteria.

–

Narcissa smiles at him warmly, hands curled around a disposable coffee cup. She’s dressed more casually than Remus has ever seen her at a meeting, looking positively mundane in loose fitting jeans and a slimming knit jumper. She’s holding a pouty rambunctious Draco, who pulls at her sweater and plays with a plushie morosely.

Narcissa gestures towards her son.“I’m sorry, the nanny has taken ill and I didn’t want to reschedule.”

Remus smiles consonglingly, waving at Draco as he slides into the seat across from Narcissa. Draco blinks at him and gnaws at the plushie. 

“He’s darling.”

Narcissa raises a brow, “I wouldn’t go that far, but he’s a good boy.”

She pushes Draco’s wispy blonde hair away from his forehead and places a kiss on the crown of his head.

“You look good,” Narcissa says kindly. 

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“How was the tour?”

Remus thinks of the glaring spotlights and heavy beat, the siren call of dilated pupils and misplaced powder. He thinks of Sirius’ hotel wanderings and hushed phone calls with Dora, angry words whispered across hallways and fire escapes. 

“Intense.”

“And Dora?”

“I’ve moved out.” 

“Oh, Remus. I’m sorry.” Narcissa reaches for his hand.

“It’s okay.”

He’s surprised to find he means it. It helps, confiding in a neutral third party who wouldn’t recognize Dora if they tripped over each other on the street. Even better, one who understands the burdens of addiction and the guilt which accompanies acts you would never complete sober but are responsible for nonetheless. 

“Teddy?”

“That’s actually why I called. Not that I didn’t want to see you, of course.”

“Of course.” Narcissa offers graciously with a small smile. 

“We’re drafting up a custody agreement.”

“You need a lawyer.”

“Yes, I know you don’t usually–”

“I’ll do it.”

Narcissa practices family law, and while she specializes in divorce proceedings, Remus isn't keen to reveal his whole sordid history to a stranger, client confidentiality be damned. 

“Is she petitioning for full custody?”

Remus nods, “I want partial custody.”

“She would remain the primary guardian then.”

“Given my lifestyle, I feel as if that would be best for Teddy.”

“You will have to disclose the time you spent in rehabilitation.”

Remus waves her off, “It was in the tabloids anyway.”

Narcissa squeezes his hand, “It’ll be okay, Remus.”

“She wants what’s best for Teddy. I won’t begrudge her that.”

“So do you.”

“Do I? Do I really deserve to be a father after everything I’ve done?”

Narcissa gazes at him evenly. 

Remus wilts under her piercing gaze. “Did Minerva teach you that?”

“I’ve been practicing in the mirror.” She says dryly. 

“Poor Draco.” Remus murmurs. Narcissa swats at him good naturedly. 

**–**

London is covered in a faint dusting of snow, enough to instil good natured cheer even amid the bustling pedestrians of the city. Remus had made the trek to Dorcas’ flat for the promise of a home cooked dinner. When Remus had told Dorcas he’d moved back in James she had insisted he be fed properly, insisting he probably hadn’t seen a vegetable in days. She was right but Remus had still offered up some half-hearted protests to save face. 

When Remus eases the front door shut behind him and wanders past the kitchen he’s surprised to find James’ sitting at table, cuppa in hand. 

“What are you still doing awake?” Remus asks as he shrugs out of his jacket. 

James startles and tries to conceal a yawn, “It’s late.”

“Yes,” Remus says slowly. “That’s why I asked.”

James ducks his head, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. The motion is sheepish at best and guilty at worst.

Remus stiffens, “Oh.”

“I worry, sometimes.” James murmurs, finally meeting Remus' eyes.

“Right.” Remus says.

“It’s not that I don’t–”

Remus holds up a hand, “It’s fine, James. More than fine, actually.”

James still looks unsure, guilt clouding his eyes. 

“I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

James pauses, “What for?”

“For sticking by me when I was a prick to you? For making you worry? For driving me to rehab?”

James snorts a tired laugh.

“You carried my ass through sixth form, consider us even.”

“For saving my life.”

James winces, scrubbing a hand over his face. They’d never discussed that night by mutual nonverbal agreement, an agreement they’d reached through loaded looks and boyhood code. It happened in Liverpool, at their second to last show before their first tour came to an abrupt end. Remus had been staring out into the crowd when his vision had spotted then blurred then blackened. He didn’t remember much after he had awoken either, not much other than the white panelling of an ambulance and James tuft of unruly hair. 

“You saved my life.”

A direct shot of adrenaline to the heart to counteract the rum, benzos and heroin Remus had pumped his body full of. To help his body fight off cardiac arrest. _Cardiac arrest._

“For all the good it did you.” James mutters accusingly. 

Now it’s Remus’ turn to wince. It’s possibly the nastiest thing James can bring himself to say and it’s still not half as nasty as Remus deserves. The worst part of having every breath laced with fire and waking up threaded with IV wires was that it still didn’t stop Remus from getting high two days later. 

“Even so, thank you.” 

James nods, body suddenly drooping with exhaustion. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Remus murmurs.

**–**

Sirius raps his knuckles against the door, staring up at the townhome in confusion. The second floor windows are open and Marlene and Gideon’s voices are audible even at this distance. They’re arguing fiercely about something and given the decibel Sirius would not be surprised if someone started hurling insults about someone’s mother. 

Lily throws open the door and ushers him inside hurriedly.

“Help,” She says without further explanation.

By the time Sirius has crossed the threshold the argument has migrated to the sitting room. Gideon and Marlene are sitting on opposite sides of the couch, facing off. Frank is sitting astride the back of the sofa and seems to be arguing both points, nodding at random intervals no matter who's speaking. 

Remus is sitting at the kitchen table with Dorcas, watching in amusement. Dorcas is engrossed in a magazine, ignoring the band’s antics with astounding efficiency. Remus looks up when Sirius walks in, flashing him a pleased smile. 

“What’s going on?” Sirius calls, interrupting. 

“We’re trying to choose a new band name.” Gideon explains. 

“I don’t see why we need a new band name.” Remus grumbles into his mug. 

Sirius rounds the corner to fill the kettle, deep in contemplation. 

“What about Sirius Black and The Six?”

“Fuck, no.” Remus blurts out reflexively, leaving the rest of the band gaping. Remus flushes and scrubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Why not?” Sirius arches a brow, admiring the way Remus' skin is tinged pink with embarrassment. 

“It sounds like we’re your backup!” Remus splutters. 

Frank nods his head emphatically and Gideon makes faux retching sounds.

“I knew you liked the spotlight as much as the rest of us.”

Remus flush deepens, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like _twat_. James, who has wandered in to see what all the fuss is about, is doing a poor job of hiding his amusement. 

“It does have a nice ring to it.” Lily admits. 

James tilts his head. “Phonetically speaking.”

“Traitors.” Remus hisses.

“It’s the alliteration.” Gideon nods sagely. 

“Gid!” Remus cries. 

“How do you even know that word?” Marlene asks with a laugh. 

Dorcas flips a page in her magazine, glancing up. “The Six is a bit uncreative.” 

“Tacking on Sirius’ name isn’t exactly a stroke of genius.” 

“I like it. It sounds very high-brow,” Marlene says, shrugging. 

“We’re a rock band, Marls.”

Remus gesticulates wildly. “Frank! Frank agrees with me.”

The assembled band members raise their eyebrows in almost perfect synchronicity. Sirius wonders if they practice, they can also roll their eyes in tandem if needed. 

“Even I knew that wasn’t going to work,” Frank mutters. 

“You’re outnumbered,” Sirius singsongs obnoxiously. 

Remus throws himself on the couch. “I’ve been abandoned.”

“Sirius Black & The Six,” Sirius smirks. 

James claps his hands together. “Now, all we need is an album.”

“And dinner. Who’s hungry?” Gideon asks. 

“Curry!” Remus calls out, wagging his finger accusingly at everyone in his vicinity. “No one deny me this.”

“You’re staying for dinner?” Sirius asks happily, looking towards the darkening skyline. 

Remus usually begged off group activities by early evening, eager to return home to Teddy and Dora. Remus stills, actually everyone stills. Sirius glances around in confusion. 

“What? What did I say?”

James darts a glance towards Remus. 

“I’ve moved back in.” Remus says calmly, shooting James an unreadable look. 

Sirius brain stalls, scrambling to make sense of this new information in a way which translates into something more substantial than _yes_. He smothers a frustrated groan, there's no tasteful way to ask the litany of questions which filter through his mind, everything from _permanently?_ to _what about the kid?_

“Oh.” Sirius blinks. _That's not much better if a little less revealing, but only a little less._

“Yes, well.”

“So, curry?” James yells. 

Remus looks heavenward and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“We’ve missed you at Potter Palace, Moony.” Gideon offers. 

“Potter Palace?’ Sirius murmurs.

“And Remus wanted to pick our new band name.” Dorcas says dryly, apparently even her finely tuned self control has its limits.

“In our defense–” Remus starts.

“We were high as fuck at the time.” Gideon finishes. 

Sirius does the maths in his head. “Where do you sleep?” 

“Sirius!” James presses a palm to his breastbone, much like Sirius’ grandmother used to do when he cursed. 

“There’s only four bedrooms.” Sirius explains slowly, looking at James in bemusement. 

“Including the broom closet Frank sleeps in.”

“Yes, thank you for that, Marls.” Frank scowls at her, no doubt remembering their bloody battle for the last remaining bedroom. Sirius had been treated to a step by step reenactment by Dorcas and Marlene, Frank intervening only after Dorcas had fainted dramatically at the sight of the imaginary blood. 

Marlene shrugs, “We never said no hair pulling.”

“We did say no biting.” 

Marlene turns away, pretending not to hear him.

“I sleep on Loch Ness.” Remus says pointing towards the couch, which now that it’s been mentioned has taken on a rather slippery and monstrous quality. Sirius' attention is drawn to the vase which sits perched on the coffee table, it’s covered in bulldogs rendered in a garish pop art style.

“I like the vase, James.” Sirius tries to sound as earnest as possible. 

“It’s new,” James says proudly. 

Sirius scans the offending object, noticing the fissures running along its barrel. “Is it cracked?”

“Lily dropped it.”

“Accidentally,” Lily deadpans.

Dorcas’ lips twitch. “It came with a matching lamp.”

“That one I couldn’t salvage.” James says mournfully, staring at the vase.

“What happened to it?”

“Remus knocked it over in his sleep.”

Remus nods solemnly, making an honest attempt at looking apologetic until James’ back is turned. 

“It was beaded.” Remus murmurs with a repressed shudder. Sirius snickers. 

Remus manages to cajole the rest of the band into ordering curry, claiming that they owed him for basically foisting him out of his own band. James scribbles down the orders as they’re shouted to him, somehow capable of distinguishing between all the noise, and hurries out the door with Lily in tow. Sirius sprawls on the floor beside Remus, plopping his feet into Remus’ lap and pretending not to notice when Remus skims his fingers across his calf absentmindedly. 

–

“You got to name the band, I get to write the hook.” Remus says, brandishing his pencil like a weapon. 

Sirius stares at him. “You already used that today.” 

“Damn, did I?”

Sirius nods, “For the chorus of ‘Moonlight.’”

“Shite.”

Remus taps his pencil against his notebook, pulling his knees towards him. He slowly sinks into Sirius' relatively new couch, which Sirius had pilfered from the recording studio. Sirius had grown quite fond of its hopping bunnies and disproportionately sized flowers even though it clashed horribly with his only other piece of furniture, the lone armchair he was currently occupying. If Sirius hadn’t already recognized the couch for the travesty it is, the way James had eyed it enviously would have been very revealing. 

Sirius blinks slowly, eyes blurring temporarily. Remus is saying something when Sirius blinks back into focus. 

“Sirius?”

“Hm?” 

“Maybe we should pick this up tomorrow.” Remus says, probably for the second time. 

“I’m fine.” Sirius barks, more harshly than he intended to. Remus leans back, staring passively. 

Sirius looks away. “Let’s rework ‘Stitches.’”

The words feel heavy on Sirius' tongue. His vision sharpens to a fine point. The outline of the table in front of him is cutting and the twining flowers spilling across the couch deepen. Even the slope of Remus' nose crystalizes, the smattering of freckles and the slight ridge in the middle of it. _Uneven terrain_ , Sirius thinks nonsensically. 

Remus returns his gaze to the matter at hand, flipping back to their notes without another word. Sirius shucks off his sweater, sticky with sweat despite the never ending stream of air conditioning. He can feel Remus’ eyes on him but refuses to glance up, there would be no satisfaction in seeing the worry there. 

–

James decides to throw a party. Well, Gideon decides to throw a party but because, as James points out smugly and much to everyone’s chagrin, the house is called Potter Palace James takes the credit. 

“You have no idea how many Pothead Palace jokes I managed to get in that first year,” Lily muses aloud. 

“And it still stuck!” James yells as he carries away a box of breakables, having bubble wrapped every awful trinket he’s ever purchased. 

“Unfortunately.” Lily murmurs out the corner of her mouth. 

Sirius laughs as he unpacks a crate, pulling out an assortment of cheap liquor. The party is allegedly to celebrate Sirius joining the band but it was all planned rather last minute and Sirius was almost not on the guest list. Lily had finally deigned to invite him not two hours ago. When Sirius had complained about being roped into preparations Remus had given him a very long winded speech about how the guest of honour must aid in clean up so as to best appreciate the festivities. This from the the man who is currently lying on the floor by the record player, having appointed himself in charge of the music.

“Why don’t you have to help?” Sirius asks, waving at Remus’ lazy sprawl. 

Remus props himself up on his forearms, casting his eyes around in imitation of someone being followed. He lowers his voice.

“Sirius, you do know I’m an _alcoholic_ right?”

Remus looks at the crate at Sirius’ feet pointedly. 

Sirius laughs, “Slacker.”

“Also I’m not allowed to handle the breakables.”

“Why not?”

Remus grins, “I keep breaking them.”

Remus heaves himself up on his forearms and looks towards the paisley printed clock hanging on the wall. 

“I better go.”

“You’re not staying for the party?”

Remus laughs. “No, the last time I attended a party I woke up naked on the roof.”

Sirius gapes after him, struck dumb by the visual and cursing his bad luck. 

“Close your mouth, Sirius.” Lily chides, as the door closes behind Remus. Sirius' jaw snaps shut with an audible click, he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed. 

Sirius pauses, “I didn’t know this house had roof access.”

“It doesn’t.” 

“How–”

“He scaled the neighbours’ house.” Lily gives him a wicked grin, “Why do you think we call him Moony?’

Sirius' mouth falls open again. Lily cackles as she flounces away, subtly plucking the paisley clock off the wall and slipping it behind the bookcase. 

Hours later Sirius is scanning the crowd with a frown, trying in vain to locate James. The townhome is teeming with guests, a sea of blurred faces and red rimmed eyes. Sirius is bored, thoughts dampened with alcohol. He twirls a glass of whiskey nimbly between his fingers and wishes that Remus had stayed, he was about ready for a laugh. Remus could always make him laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this one so let me know what you think! Also does anyone know how to go about finding a beta?


	8. Ballads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta Scarlett_Lucian!

**_December 10th, 1981_ **

Sirius wakes up on the floor of the upstairs bath, his body slumped against the radiator. There’s a brisk wind pouring in from the open window above him, the unmistakable sounds of jeers and honks characteristic of the city filtering in. Sirius tries to sit up and his wrist catches. He looks down in confusion, a furry pink handcuff encircles his wrist, anchoring him to the radiator. 

_What the fuck?_ He jingles the handcuff, tugging at the radiator. Nothing. He glances around hopelessly. Marlene is snoring in the tub, mouth open and limbs splayed uncomfortably across the porcelain. 

“Marls!” Sirius shouts. She doesn’t even stir. 

“Marlene!” 

Nothing, not even a twitch. Sirius is about to despair when Lily pokes her head in and sniggers. 

“What the bloody fuck is this about?” Sirius jangles the handcuff. 

“It was for your own good.”

“Typically, when I wake up handcuffed I am wearing far less clothing,” Sirius leers. 

Lily rolls her eyes and goes about scrubbing off last night’s makeup, leaning into the mirror and rubbing at her smudged purple eyeshadow with a grimace. She removes the empty beer bottles from the kitchen sink and dumps them into the trash, studiously avoiding Sirius’ questioning gaze. Finally, she sighs and leans a hip against the sink.

“You were trying to see Remus.”

“He wasn’t even at the party,” Sirius says slowly. 

“That was the problem apparently.” 

Sirius flushes, “What exactly did I say?”

“Well, you started by threatening people for Dorcas’ address.”

 _Oh god_ , Sirius thinks as he frantically tries to piece together the events of the previous night. Remus had spent the night at Dorcas’ in order to avoid the party, still not having found his own flat or dueled Marlene for his old room. Sirius has vague recollections of imploring James to reveal Dorcas’ address in exchange for not being thumped over the head with his newly pieced together bulldog vase. 

“Did I bribe someone with a blowjob?”

Lily nods solemnly. “Frank was very flattered.” 

Sirius groans. 

“Oh, and then you tried calling Dorcas.”

“How many times?”

“Maybe two dozen?” 

Sirius lets his head fall back against the radiator. Maybe once he gets the cuffs off he can throw himself out the window. He sees no other solution at this point. 

“Do I want to know what I said?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Right.”

“Then you kept disappearing.”

Sirius remembers leaning against a lamppost and fumbling with a cigarette, lost but intent on something that seemed just out of reach. He wonders if it’s too late to return to his solo career. 

“How far did I get?”

“‘Bout seven blocks before James found you.”

The front door clicks open and someone pads into the house. Sirius cranes his head so he can see around Lily and into the hall. Lily mouths something unintelligible at him and Sirius shakes his head in confusion. 

“Hello?” Remus calls, voice muffled by the pounding in Sirius’ ears. Lily’s smile widens. 

“Up here,” Lily calls back. 

“Lily!” Sirius hisses, motioning towards his handcuffed hand. 

Lily laughs, “Chin up. I think we still have the key somewhere.”

“You think?” Sirius asks shrilly, scrambling for an explanation for the handcuffs that does not involve him lovelorn and chasing after Remus. 

Remus nudges open the door, holding a brown bag dripping in grease. Marlene wrinkles her nose and makes small huffing noises as she blinks her eyes open. Sirius stares at her in astonishment. 

“Bacon?” Marlene croaks, gazing at Remus with nothing short of hero worship. He thrusts the bag towards her and she grabs at it gratefully, popping a fry into her mouth and munching happily. She ignores the rest of them. 

Remus’ eyes flit towards Sirius, landing on the frilly handcuffs. 

“Kinky.” 

Lily snorts a laugh and plops down on the edge of the bathtub, risking a limb to steal one of Marlene’s fries. Remus laughs and leans over to rummage inside the bag, handing Sirius a wax wrapped burger. He slides down onto the floor beside Sirius, who stops sulking just long enough to hastily unwrap the burger one-handed. 

“Good night?” Remus asks, laughter evident in his voice.

Sirius frowns at him, biting into his burger and looking away. Remus laughs outright. 

“What did you do to deserve this?” Remus gestures at Sirius’ awkward attempts to eat his burger without letting anything fall. Sirius wipes sauce off his chin with his wrist and glares at Lily over Remus’ shoulder. 

“Sirius kept trying to perform a striptease for Shacklebolt.” Lily says, shooting Sirius a very unsubtle wink. 

“I did not!” Sirius shouts, voice reaching an unflattering octave. 

Remus nods. “Shacklebolt is a handsome bloke.”

Sirius glares at them both, pouting petulantly and tipping his head against the radiator. He knows he must look childish but it’s not even noon and he’s chained to a radiator. 

“It was one date.” 

“What?”

Sirius tilts his head towards Remus.

“Shacklebolt and I went out once, right after I got home from the tour.”

Remus purses his lips. “Right, you mentioned.”

Sirius feels Remus’s muscles bunch where they’re pressed together, thigh to thigh. 

“The bulging biceps and sweet disposition just didn’t do it for you?

Sirius looks towards Marlene, who has posed the question around a mouthful of fries.

“Not really.” 

Sirius makes a conscious effort not to look towards Remus. Lily hides a smile behind a bite of some sort of greasy breakfast sandwich, a nauseating mess of fried chicken, egg and pickles.

Remus nudges his foot. “You know they lost the keys to those, right?”

Sirius’ head swivels to Lily. 

“Lily?”

Lily looks contemplative, going so far as to scratch her chin. “That’s right.”

Sirius stares at her incredulously, tugging viciously at the handcuff. 

“What am I supposed to do?”

“What is that smell?” James asks, peering around the doorframe. He crows happily when he spots the bag in Marlene’s grasp, not hesitating to climb into the bathtub beside her. 

Remus shakes his head in amusement. “There’s nuggets.”

“Cheers, mate.” James says, brandishing the aforementioned box of nuggets with a nod. 

Gideon and Frank push the door open next, peering down at their assembled bandmates with near matching expressions of confusion. 

“Why’s the party in here?” 

Sirius holds up his wrist in answer, taking another bite of his burger and watching sadly as a piece of bacon falls into his lap. 

“We don’t have keys to those,” Gideon says, as he shuts the door behind them. 

“So I’ve been told,” Sirius grumbles. 

Frank and Gideon sit with their backs pressed against the door, legs splayed in front of them. Marlene hands them the bag graciously. A comfortable silence settles around them, interspersed with the sounds of chewing and low hums of approval. 

Finally, when Marlene starts in on her second burger and comes alives again, she begins regaling Remus with stories from the previous night. Remus laughs at the right moments and asks all the right questions but Sirius can see the way his smile tightens ever so slightly, mouth curving insincerely. As the others try to rehash some story, arguing over the details at a near deafening volume, Remus turns towards him.

“I can pick locks, you know.”

“Of course, you can.”

Sirius holds his wrist out towards Remus obligingly. He watches in fascination as James hands Remus a bobby pin without prompting, having retrieved it from somewhere in that nest he calls hair. Remus bends the bobby pin and removes the little plastic tip, sliding it into the locking mechanism smoothly. His fingers are warm against Sirius’ wrist. 

“Did you miss me last night?” Remus asks, looking up at Sirius through his fringe. His expression reveals nothing but cool politeness.

“Maybe.” Sirius allows with a suspicious frown. 

Remus nods, turning his attention back to the handcuff with a small smile. Sirius gazes at him, trying to parse through the emotions flitting across Remus’ face. 

“Then you must have really missed Dorcas–”

Sirius freezes, staring at Remus in slowly dawning horror. 

“If the dozens of messages she received were any indication.”

Heat creeps up Sirius’ neck and he looks anywhere but at Remus. Remus chuckles softly, tinkering with the handcuffs and kindly letting Sirius burrow in denial-laden silence. Sirius hears a _snick_ and looks down at his limp wrist, the handcuff now pried open. He rubs at the already fading bruise just to give himself something to do. Remus scrambles upright and claps his hands together.

“How ‘bout a cuppa?”

–

Sirius stares down at his collection of scribbles with a frown; he can’t even read his own writing anymore. Remus groans and pulls at his hair, glaring at Sirius over his notepad. They’ve been at it for the better part of four hours, trading lyrics and barbs in equal measure. Remus gesticulates towards the waning evening light, warms hues fading to inky black. 

“Enough?” 

Sirius' eyes crease with laughter. 

“I believe I asked that two hours ago.”

Remus shrugs, unapologetic. He muffles a yawn and unfolds himself from the couch, muscles pulling taut under his well-worn t-shirt. Sirius looks away. 

“I better get home.” 

“Tomorrow?” Sirius asks.

Remus has shown up at Sirius' door three days in a row, guitar slung over his shoulder and notebook shoved under his jacket. Sirius might have complained about the strain of writing a new album if it didn’t mean getting to see Remus practically fresh from sleep. Every morning Remus grumbles a greeting and strides directly for the kettle, riffling through Sirius’s cabinets without shame. 

Sirius tries not to feel too pleased about the ease with which Remus navigates his kitchen, knowing it’s nothing more than a sleep deprived man’s priorities. Remus shrugs into his jacket and winds his scarf around his neck, preparing to brave the cold. 

“Monday, alright? I have Teddy this weekend.”

Sirius tries to temper his disappointment. 

“Dora is letting him stay with you at Potter Palace?”

Remus snorts. “No, I promised I’d stay with my mom in Henley. I think the thought of Teddy touching anything in that house was enough for her to rethink motherhood.”

“I saw Gideon eat spaghetti out of the sink once.”

Remus laughs. “I never said she didn’t have a point.”

“Monday, then.” Sirius agrees, walking Remus to the door. Remus smiles over his shoulder. 

Sirius closes the door of his flat with a thud, shucking off his jeans and padding towards the kitchen. He jingles the cabinet until it falls open, teetering precariously on its hinges. Sirius goes through the bottles until he lands on the rum. He gazes around his flat fondly as he drinks from the rim of the bottle, not bothering with a glass. 

When he had paid first and last on the flat it had felt like a victory of epic proportions, an accumulation of more than two years of fitful sleep and greedy hands. He has grown attached to the little flat and all its quirks. Even now that he could afford something else, something better, it seems a shame to leave the safety of these four walls.

The city is dark and sprinkled in snow, luminescent and eerie under the lamplights. Sirius presses his sofa right against the window and curls up under his duvet. The alcohol blurs his thoughts until his mind is a swirl of copper tinged curls and calloused fingers, the sweep of Remus’s lips and the low baritone of his sleep-roughened voice. 

Sirius huffs in frustration. Every time he felt as if he'd discovered the secret to Remus’ affections, in the subtle tightening of his mouth or the heat of his gaze, Remus would turn around and react with cool indifference. It was maddening. 

Sirius had made his infatuation obvious in a series of, admittedly embarrassing, alcohol-soaked nights. Yet Remus had never mentioned the times Sirius has sought him out, cheeks tinged pink from the booze and devotion plain on his face. They had never spoken of the dozens of calls Sirius had placed with Dorcas in more than light, teasing tones. Maybe he was simply as oblivious as James had made him out to be all those weeks ago. Or maybe Remus was doing him the courtesy of subtly turning down his advances so as not to wound him. 

Sirius groans and takes a lengthy drag from the bottle. His head feels heavy and his eyelids droop. 

–

“It doesn’t fit,” Remus says calmly. Always calmly. 

Sirius is near pulling out his hair over their inability to cobble together more than half a dozen songs in as many days. His body is thrumming with artificial energy and he itches for something to dull the ache in his chest. Remus sits not two feet away from him, staring down at his notes as if they’ve personally wronged him. 

“It does fit.” 

Sirius is exhausted, less from the long hours and more from the sheer strength of will it takes to go up against Remus. For someone who exudes such a calming force on a group of people as chaotic as The Six, Remus is surprisingly firm and unwilling to compromise. 

“It’s a ballad. A love ballad at that.”

Sirius shrugs. They both know they’ve hit a wall, going in circles and losing inspiration quickly, their earlier writing fevour having given way to lazy musings with little substance, clichés piling on top of pleasantries. Sirius had written the song alone, a fact that irked Remus. Though he would no doubt be the first to deny it, Remus was nothing if not controlling when it came to the band. 

“Will you at least admit the song had merit?”

Remus' nose crinkles in distaste and Sirius knows he’s won. 

“Aha! You admit it!”

“We don’t really do love ballads,” Remus says dryly. He leans back against the couch, his designated spot when he visits Sirius’s flat, and stares unwaveringly at Sirius. 

“You’ve written plenty of songs about Dora. ‘High Strung’ is about her!”

“That song is about how I gaslighted my pregnant girlfriend in order to shoot heroin and go behind her back.”

“Okay, granted not my best example.” 

Remus mouth wavers around a smile. 

“What about ‘Whomping Willows’ from your first album? The one James wrote.”

“That’s about how James lost his virginity in a field.” 

Sirius blinks, burying that little tidbit for later. He wags a finger at Remus. 

“It’s a good song, Remus. You know it is.”

Remus leans his forearms against his knees and rests his chin in his hands. Sirius stares back, unwilling to back down this time. He had worked tirelessly, something Sirius wasn’t particularly keen on, specifically so that the song would be able to withstand Remus’s scrutiny and skepticism.

“Fine.”

Sirius whoops loudly.

–

After that night, where they had worked into the early hour of the morning putting the final touches on Sirius’s love ballad, inspiration carries them off on a tidal wave of late nights and desperate scrambling to formulate their thoughts. It’s a bit intoxicating, the sudden rush of adrenaline when they’re on the cusp of a finished song, words on the tip of their tongues and pens poised above a notebook chock full of discarded ideas. They have spent four days immersed in each other and the new album, hardly leaving room for food or sleep. 

Sirius props his feet up on the windowsill, scanning the legal pad in his lap for anything worth salvaging. Remus drinks tar-black coffee and chainsmokes out the window. He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes. 

“Every idea is a bad idea when you’re high, except the bad ideas?” 

Remus waves a hand at him, cigarette smoke carving a path in the still air. 

“Jot it down.”

“How ‘bout ‘never been as miserable as when I’m with you, knowing what you want is not me.”

“Oh, god. Another love ballad?” 

Sirius throws his hands up in surrender and flips to another page. There are already two love ballads on the new album courtesy of Sirius. Remus had drawn the line at three. 

“It’s a wonder I wasn’t strangled in the cradle. Mama, do you regret that now? Mama, what do you think of me now?”

Remus laughs. “I like that one, actually.”

Sirius beams at him and scribbles it down. The album already has a song which vaguely alludes to his childhood scars, swathed in allusions to playard scraps and bullies, but Remus had been right to encourage him to write about it. It felt like revenge and it felt like catharsis. Sinatra said the best revenge is massive success and Sirius tended to agree. 

Remus tosses his cigarette butt out the window and snuggles further into the couch, pulling the throw around his knees. Sirius has the sudden urge to offer him biscuits and tea. 

“Let’s play around with that one.”

Remus glances at his watch and whistles. “I better call James.”

Sirius gives him a questioning look. 

Remus shrugs. “He worries.”

“Right,” Sirius drawls, trying to imagine James sitting at the kitchen table and fretting like he has come to believe a mother is supposed to, with rollers in and a bathrobe on. Remus reaches for the phone, which sits on the floor a few feet from them. Sirius tunes him out, only looking up briefly when he hears Remus hang up. 

“James says hullo.” 

Sirius nods distractedly. 

“How about this ‘wanted to be wild, wanted to be free, instead the world got its hands on me.”

Remus tilts his head consideringly. “I think it’s a good start.”

“That’s a no.”

Remus doesn’t even bother denying it. Sirius looks back at the page.

“It’s a wonder I wasn’t dropped on my head. Mama, do you regret that now? Mama, tell me, what do you think of me now? 

Remus looks as if he’s fighting off a smile. “It’s kind of dark.” 

Sirius raises a brow. “But a little funny.”

Remus smiles. 

–

The next day they agree to meet at the recording studio. They’re only two songs short of a full album. Sirius is thankful for the change of scenery if only because sneaking off to the loo for a pick-me-up seems distasteful with Remus in the next room, tacitly fighting for sobriety. As it is, Sirius walks into the recording lounge, loose limbed and weightless. The throbbing at his temples, which has been relentlessly begging for attention the last few days, has faded blissfully. 

Remus is already eagerly polishing up ‘Mama, Do You Regret That Now?’ by taking a red pen to any inconsistencies. He looks up as Sirius enters and purses his lips. Sirius wavers. He hasn’t done anything to warrant Remus’s ire, not yet at least. 

Sirius falls into the sofa across from Remus and they get started with little preamble. Remus whiteknuckles his pen and looks at the spot between Sirius’s brows when he addresses him. 

Six hours, two coffee runs and four arguments later they have their first album as Sirius Black & The Six. Remus exits the lounge with a relieved smile, chattering happily about his weekend plans with Teddy and disappearing briskly under the guise of being late to pick up his son. 

Sirius feels untethered. 

–

When Sirius throws open the door to the recording lounge, panting from the brisk pace he had kept up for the last six blocks, it’s to find the entire band eagerly passing around copies of the new lyrics and arguing about musical arrangements. Remus is sitting in the armchair at the far corner, the symbolic head of the table as it were. Sirius shuts the door behind him, offering hurried apologies before sitting at Marlene’s feet. There’s a strained silence filling the room, punctuated only by the occasional flip of a page. Sirius’s knee bounces as he watches them scan every page carefully, except Gideon, who doesn’t seem to care much and excuses himself to go peruse the vending machines

Marlene’s lips curl. “I didn’t realize you were writing the entire album.”

There’s a palpable shift in the room as everyone looks towards Remus, awaiting a reaction. 

“Is that a problem?” Remus asks, unshakeable. Sirius almost wants to applaud the forced nonchalance, if only because he can tell by Remus’s white knuckles that it is indeed forced. Marlene’s brows draw together and she looks away, stewing. 

Franks flips through the collection of lyrics. “I gave you a song I’d written, Remus.” 

Remus mouth tightens. “It didn’t feel right for this album.”

Frank’s face reddens. 

“Were you going to tell me?”

Remus raises his eyebrows, his expression clearly reads _I didn’t need to_. Frank huffs. 

Sirius glances at Remus, who doesn’t even blink as his fellow band members wallow in their unhappiness. He’s never seen the band be anything less than light and teasing. He had assumed, rather erroneously, that tensions within the band were borne of Remus’s addictions. It was a naive assumption, especially given how many members the band had and how passionate they could be about the most mundane of topics.

“We’re reworking this arrangement.” Dorcas says, gesturing to the chorus of ‘Moonlight.’ Sirius expects Remus to balk at her tone, but instead Remus tilts his head in acknowledgement. Sirius feels poised for battle, ready to leap to Remus’s aid should the opportunity arise but also knowing he lacks any sort of authority within the band. 

Gideon strides into the room, arms laden with vending machine goodies, and raises his eyebrows at their tense faces. 

“That bad?” Gideon asks with a mouth full of crisps.

Silence descends once again. James fidgets nervously, having made himself so small Sirius had forgotten he was present. Frank and Marlene exchange looks of jilted solidarity and Dorcas continues to flip through the pages, taking a red pen to their work unabashedly. 

“What’s it called then?” 

Gideon is apparently unphased by the tension. Remus gives Sirius an encouraging nod. 

Sirius grins. “Marauders.”


	9. Henley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long chapter so enjoy! Thank you to my lovely beta Scarlett_Lucian !

**_December 20th, 1981_ **

Remus peruses the newspaper with a critical eye, sipping his now tepid tea with a grimace. It’s not as if money is really an issue, but he would like to find a flat which wouldn’t have his mother wrinkling her nose and complaining about wastefulness. Hope had always sneered at couples who jeopardized their livelihoods for flashy cars or wrist watches. Remus had been brought up frugal, years of clipping coupons and day-of food shopping having instilled in him a nearly unshakable desire not to over indulge. 

Given this, there are only three promising options, all of which Remus intends to see before he goes home for the holidays. Remus’ back is complaining about James’ couch but more than that living with resentful bandmates is even less pleasant than he had anticipated. 

Remus looks up from the paper to find Marlene sulking on the couch, burrowed under a mountain of blankets as she flips through the channels on the telly. Dorcas notices his gaze and shoots him a sarcastic thumbs up. Remus ducks his head. 

He definitely needs a new flat. 

James ambles down the stairs, his arm thrown over Lily’s shoulders; Lily pressing a palm to his chest and giggling into his shoulder. Remus feels longing flare up, thinking of black curls, crooked smiles and ink stained fingers. He shakes his head, snorting derisively, and glances towards James.

“Jamie!” Remus hurries towards him, abandoning his mug. He grabs hold of James’ arm, essentially wrenching him away from Lily, and drags him out the door. “We have flats to see.”

Lily waves and deposits herself in the middle of the other girls, commenting on the television program as she steals popcorn from Marlene. Remus slams the door shut behind them and breathes a sigh of relief. James snorts but obediently wraps his scarf around his neck and secures his coat. 

“Where to then?”

–

Remus no longer has any legitimate reason to see Sirius. It’s a fact he has been bemoaning for days, idly searching for a reason to invite himself to the other man’s apartment without appearing desperate. So, when Frank gives him one too many withering glares and Marlene turns her nose up at his offer to help with dinner, he reaches for the phone. Sirius picks up on the second ring, sounding cloudy with sleep even though it’s approaching early evening.

“‘Lo,” Sirius grunts. 

“I need refuge,” Remus says, not bothering with a greeting. Marlene is staring at him over the edge of the couch, preparing dinner, sans Remus’ unwelcome help, and taking a knife to the onions with violent accuracy.

“Double-crossing spies? Mobsters? Evil spirits?” 

“Marlene is still pissed at me,” Remus murmurs through gritted teeth, throwing Marlene a candied smile over his shoulder. 

Sirius laughs into the receiver. “Say no more. Come by the flat whenever.”

“I owe you.” Remus sighs and if he sounds a little too breathless and distressed it’s nobody’s business but his own. He hears rustling on the end of the line and imagines Sirius with the sheets pooled around his waist, eyes half-lidded and–

“Never a bad thing to have famous rock stars indebted to you,” Sirius is saying, forcibly plucking Remus out of his illicit daydream, “even the boring Faulkner obsessed ones.”

Remus grins. “I’ll be over in twenty, you twat.”

“Twat! Here I am offering up my humble–” Remus hangs up before Sirius can really get going, he’d learned the hard way that once Sirius started in on a tirade he was hard pressed to stop. One notable night in Edinburgh, Sirius and Remus were being pursued by fans and when they had finally ducked into a nearby alley, avoiding the fray, Sirius had still been extolling the virtues of _Taxi Driver_. Remus, on the other hand, had been faint with exertion, huffing and puffing unattractively. 

As Remus shrugs into his jacket he has a moment’s pause. He scrubs a hand over his face, chasing after a man who is too pretty to be interested in him sober is hardly the height of good decision making. As if that’s not enough, Sirius also does a decent impression of a posterboy for the pitfalls of fame. 

Remus is at Sirius’ flat not thirty minutes later, takeout from the Thai restaurant down the street in hand. When the door opens Remus is greeted by a warm smile. Sirius is barefoot, joggers slung low on his hips and hair combed up into a bun. He’s holding his t-shirt in one hand. Remus keeps his eyes pinned somewhere above Sirius’ head for his sanity’s sake, carefully not staring at the light dusting of hair dipping below Sirius’ joggers.

“Sorry, mate. Come on in.” Sirius slips into his t-shirt and waves him in. “Is that Thai?”

Remus thrusts the bag at him and Sirius rummages inside with a pleased smile. Remus had made sure to pick up their green curry dish, knowing it’s Sirius’ favourite. 

“So, what happened?” Sirius asks, as he collects utensils from the drawers and motions towards the living room. Remus settles into the couch, prying the lid off the styrofoam container with a contented sigh.

“My hard stance on our album has not been well received,” Remus says around a mouthful of coconut chicken.

Sirius quirks an eyebrow. “No? I particularly liked the part where you lost Frank’s lyrics.” 

Remus shoots him an unamused glare as he stuffs another piece of chicken in his mouth, not deigning to respond. They eat in silence for a while, both too caught up in their food to be good company. 

“I found a new flat,” Remus says at last, sitting back and patting at his stomach. 

The flat is not five blocks from James’ place in Kensington. It’s just off Holland Park and boasts two bedrooms, a balcony and hardwood floors. It’s spacious, with far more room than Remus needs, with an extra bedroom for Teddy when it becomes necessary. The current tenants have decorated the place in a bizarre mix of pastels and geometric shapes, but once all that is stripped away the flat itself is rather beautiful. 

“That bad?” Sirius asks, surprised. 

“That bad,” Remus confirms, thinking of how yesterday he had woken up to find every pair of pants he owns strewn across a clothing line. He had spent twenty minutes dangling out the window in an attempt to retrieve them, only for them to fall on an unsuspecting couple. Marlene had taken her morning cuppa outside and watched proudly, snickering intermittently and telling passerbyers that he had gone behind her back. 

“Telly?” Sirius gestures towards the little box propped up on a series of magazines. It’s tiny, barely serviceable and its antenna is lopsided. Sirius gazes at it lovingly anyway. 

Remus nods appreciatively, happy to lose himself in something mind-numbing. He curls up against the arm of the couch, staring at the screen as his mind drifts, eyes glazing over as he contemplates the upcoming album. Remus jerks out of his reverie when Sirius laughs at something on screen, the abrupt jolt of his head drawing Sirius’ attention.

Sirius glances at him speculatively. “Are you alright?”

Remus snorts. _Where to begin?_

“Before–” Remus stops, eyes flitting away. “Before, if I had pissed them off I wouldn’t have worried. I would have argued it was worth it, for the good of the band and all that rot. Now it seems absurd to expect that level of trust from them.”

Sirius sputters, “They respect you.”

“Do they?” Remus hums, unconvinced. “Because I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They follow you because you’re talented and, love ballads aside, you know what you’re doing.”

Sirius speaks with fevered conviction, as if he cannot fathom why anyone wouldn’t implicitly trust Remus. Remus smothers a fond smile and feels affection swell in him for this beautiful, unassuming man whose camaraderie he’s never been worthy of. Sirius was always eager for his company, regardless of the stipulations of his sobriety or his near self-destructive ability to dwell on the compunction of his actions. 

“Are you saying that because I let you write on the album?” Remus turns flinty eyes towards Sirius, lips quirking.

“Maybe,” Sirius smiles sweetly, tilting his head towards Remus. 

Remus reluctantly drags his eyes away from the curve of Sirius’ jaw, which is thrown into sharp relief by the low lighting of the television.

“Holiday plans?” Remus asks. 

Sirius abruptly fixes his eyes to the telly, mouth tightening. “I’m staying in London.”

Remus hesitates, unsure how to broach the subject without alluding to Sirius’ complicated relationship with his family. Sirius, apparently engrossed in a commercial for toothpaste, is oblivious to the way Remus opens and closes his mouth half a dozen times. 

“Alone?” Remus asks finally, lowering the volume of his voice as if it will somehow dampen the effect of his words. 

Sirius shrugs. “My brother might visit on Boxing Day.”

Remus imagines Sirius spending Christmas Day exactly as he is now, watching telly with empty takeout containers strewn across the floor. It just won’t do, not while Remus will be spending it in the warm embrace of Henley’s never ending festivities. 

“You should come home with me.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows, something dangerous flitting across his face. 

“To Henley!” Remus scrambles to correct himself, spluttering indelicately. “You should come to Henley for the holidays. It won’t just be me either, Gideon and James will be going home too.”

“Are you sure?”

Sirius is dubious, eyes darting towards Remus as if assessing his sincerity. Remus masks his surprise at the lack of protests and half-hearted excuses with a frenzied nod. 

“Yes! It’s Christmas after all.” Remus smiles warmly and turns back towards the telly, brightening at the possibility of offering Sirius this simple thing. Sirius’ mouth goes slack, bewilderment obvious in the line between his brows.

–

Remus’ belongings are still piled in the entryway of Potter Palace and are easily maneuvered into Gideon’s van. Luckily, Gideon is rather relieved at having to put little to no effort into the album and doesn’t need convincing to help Remus move out. 

James, cigarette dangling from his fingers, supervises as Dorcas and Frank load up the van. They bicker about how best to fit everything and Frank is a little too loose with the boxes marked ‘breakables.’ Frank slides the last box into place and dusts himself off before turning towards Remus.

“You know that was fucked up, right?”

Remus sighs and cards his hands through his hair. Dorcas quietly backs away, pulling at James’ cardigan and dragging him along behind her. James gives him a hopeless look as he’s pulled inside by the sleeve.

Frank’s face is flushed with anger. “Contrary to what you may think this isn’t your band.” 

Remus quirks his brow, unimpressed. It was technically true, but everyone deferred to him as if it were. Dorcas and James are watching from the window, noses practically pressed against the glass. 

“We’re a fucking band, group effort is implied.”

Remus breathes through his nose. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in what Frank is saying, it’s just that he knows how to compose an album. Remus had not been trying to diminish the accomplishments of his bandmates, he just believes their talents lay elsewhere. Remus cringes, _God that was so pompous_. 

Remus will be the first to admit he’s hardly brimming with self-confidence but if there’s one thing he’s always been sure of it’s his ability to write music. It’s the one thing he excels at, beyond singing, beyond leading the band, beyond being a father. 

Frank begins to pace the length of the van, threading his fingers together behind his back. 

“I know no one takes me seriously. I know that even without me you would still be a success.” Frank’s tone is edged with bitterness. “But you chose to pick me up off the side of the road that day. You let me in the band. Whether you like it or not, I get a say.” 

Remus settles his face into the dispassionate facade he has perfected in the last few years. It’s the same inscrutable expression which had allowed him to lie to Dora and tuck a needle up his sleeve while James watched.

“For fuck’s sake, you let Sirius help and he’s been a part of the band for like two minutes.” 

There are six of them, now seven, and it just isn’t feasible to cater to everyone’s whims and egos. Remus makes allowances for Sirius because he has raw talent and drive which the rest of them lack. Remus had written their first album with blow coming out of his ears, a combination of cocaine and caffeine which had succeeded in launching them to stardom. It’s not that he wasn’t open to input, it’s just that it seemed rather redundant, especially now that he had Sirius at his back. 

Remus huffs, frantically searching for a way to gently put into words what they all acknowledge but refuse to voice. Dorcas’ words ring in his ears, _we’re famous because of you_. It’s not the whole truth, not even close, but it helps bolster what Remus needs to say next. 

“Frank, I’m not trying to belittle your role in the band. I’m not doing this because I’ve gone mad with power. I’m not trying to shut you out of the creative process. I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Frank laughs in disbelief. “Fuck off.”

Frank leaves Remus standing next to van and he wonders, not for the first time, if this would have been an issue if he hadn’t cocked-up and gotten himself admitted to rehab. 

–

Three blaring honks alert Sirius to Remus’ arrival. He peers out the window to see Gideon’s van idling outside his building. It’s two days before Christmas and Sirius has thrown all his essentials in a duffle, among hurriedly purchased gifts for Remus and his mum, in preparation for the trip to Henley-on-Thames. Sirius is unsure what to expect of the town which had produced Gideon, James and Remus; he’s even less sure about how he had managed to warrant an invitation. 

Gideon is blasting Zeppelin’s ‘Ramble On’ at full tilt, so loud the van seems to be shaking with the force of the music. James is in the passenger seat, playing the air drums as if he’s not an actual honest to God famous drummer. Remus is laughing in the backseat, leaning forward to say something to James with a wide smile. 

_Maybe this would be a good Christmas_ , Sirius muses. Sirius hates the holidays and has done so ever since he had grown too old for the glitz and glam of wreaths and twinkling lights and the duplicitous nature of Father Christmas. Last year Regulus had shown up on his doorstep and handed him a foiled wrap container of sticky toffee pudding. It might be the only thing Sirius misses about the Black family Christmases, bouncing in his seat and stealing looks with Regulus as they waited for it to be served. 

“Sirius!” James leans out the window and thumps the side of the car. “Let’s go!”

Sirius shakes his head, half smiling. James has the tendency to treat everything like some great adventure. Remus falls back into his seat and throws open the door for Sirius. Sirius nods his thanks as he scrambles inside, placing his duffle at his feet.

“Ready, lads?” Gideon calls over the music, tearing away from the building without awaiting their answers. James reaches for the dial and turns the music up. He tilts his head back and starts belting out the lyrics, heedless of the way Gideon flinches beside him. 

Sirius claps James on the shoulder. “Easy, there.” 

“Don’t be jealous of my talent. It’s unbecoming.”

Sirius laughs, feeling lighter than he has in months. The scenery slowly fades from towering concrete to wide open greenery powdered in snow. Remus drums his fingers against the upholstery, mouthing the words under his breath with a smile. 

Henley-on-Thames, or at least the main stretch of the town, comes into view after an hour or so. The streets are littered with white paneling and red brick and shops glittering with Christmas displays. People are bundled up against the cold, arms laden with shopping bags. Sirius feels almost instantaneously calmer, as if nothing bad could happen in a place with only one Tesco. 

“Welcome home,” Gideon mutters, pulling onto the bridge which spans across the River Thames. 

James chuckles. “Don’t sound so glum, mate.”

“Gideon’s family makes up half of Henley,” Remus explains to Sirius, darting glances at the back of Gideon’s head.

“Not half,” Gideon grumbles petulantly. 

“Three quarters, then.” 

Gideon tears his eyes away from the road to glare at Remus. 

“Doesn’t your sister already have like three kids,” James asks gleefully, clearly expectant of the answer. 

Gideon gives them the two-fingered salute and mumbles something too low for them to hear. 

“What was that?” Remus asks loudly, obnoxiously even. 

“It’s five. She had twins last year.”

Sirius snickers. 

“Piss off,” Gideon mumbles, picking up speed and sending them careening over a speedbump, watching in satisfaction as their heads hit the roof of the van. Now it’s Gideon’s turn to snicker as they all share identical groans of pain. 

As they drive deeper into the town people begin to turn towards them. A few of them break away from their groups and shout out warm greetings, clearly having recognized Gideon or James. James rolls down the window and calls out to them, happily soaking up the attention, while Gideon mutters darkly under his breath. 

After a handful of minutes Gideon pulls into a dirt driveway, van rocking as he comes to park in front of a small cottage heavy with snow. 

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Remus calls as he shoulders his duffle, waving goodbye as Gideon screeches out of the driveway. He leads the way up to the cottage, Sirius trailing after him. 

“We do Christmas Eve at the Potters, have done ever since I was a kid,” Remus explains, “It’s a bit more formal than one might expect but Gideon and Lily will be there so I expect you won’t be too bored.”

Hope waits for them with the front door ajar, seemingly unbothered by the cold as she gazes at her only son with adoration. She pulls Remus into what looks like a rib-crushing hug before pulling away and holding him at arm's length, gazing at him critically. 

“You’re thin.” Hope wrinkles her nose. “And unshaven.” 

Remus ducks his head and rubs at his scruffy beard sheepishly. Sirius snorts, watching Remus, who has withstood the wrath of his own band without so much as blinking, getting told off by his mum. Hope turns towards him, keen gaze assessing. 

“Well, aren’t you lovely,” Hope states. 

“Mum!” Remus cries embarrassed, mouthing an apology at Sirius with a shake of his head. 

Sirius laughs, “I was just about to say the same thing, actually.”

Hope shakes her head. “And a charmer. Interested in small town life?”

“Mum, please,” Remus pleads. 

Hope pats Remus’ arm consolingly. “I’m only joking.”

“I’m Hope.” She offers with a warm smile, eyes crinkling prettily. “Welcome to Henley, love.”

Hope ushers them inside, waving off Sirius’ introduction by pointing towards where his record sits on her coffee table. She leads them towards the kitchen, a plate of biscuits already awaiting them. Sirius watches as Hope bustles around the kitchen, preparing them cups of tea over their protests to lend a hand.

 _Definitely a good Christmas then_ , Sirius thinks, biting into a ginger snap. 

**–**

The next morning Sirius wakes in Remus’ childhood bedroom. It is sadly devoid of any embarrassing memorabilia, instead cluttered with books and hardly worn clothes. Remus had taken the couch and wouldn’t hear about broaching the argument with Sirius. Not that there had been an argument, one glare from Hope had caused any protests to die on Sirius’ lips. 

Sirius traipses downstairs to find Remus and Hope in the kitchen. Remus is petering with the kettle, teasing Hope about the curlers in her hair while Hope swats at him with a spatula.

“‘Morning,” Sirius calls, peering over Hope’s shoulder to see what he can help with. Hope gives him a stern glare and shoos him towards the table. Remus places a mug of tea in front of him, milk and sugar already swirling in the cup. 

Sirius grins, taking a hearty sip from the mug. His hands shake where they’re wrapped around the porcelain. Sirius puts his mug down and places his hands in his lap, watching as tremors travel up his fingers. Remus is oblivious, chatting with his mother as she plates sausages and eggs. 

Hope slides his breakfast in front of him and Sirius smiles gratefully, taking a bite of toast. It tastes like ash in his mouth. 

**–**

“Potter Palace seems a bit ironic now,” Sirius says dryly, gazing up at the Potters’ home with ill concealed awe. 

The house, or more accurately, _estate_ , is enormous, with dozens of windows inlaid in a lovely cream colour façade. Hope and Remus are at Sirius’ back, trading amused glances at Sirius’ open-mouthed wonder. Sirius spots a slightly erotic fountain as they make their way up the driveway, which must stretch miles, and wonders if the Potters are as tasteful in their decor as their son. 

“Didn’t you wonder how we could afford to live in Kensington?” Remus asks, waving at James who waits for them in front of heavy oak doors, leaning against one of two stone pillars which adorn the house. Sirius has actually but there was so much about the band that is left up to the imagination he has never bothered to pry. James strides towards them, gravel crunching underfoot. 

“Mum is so happy you’re here.” James loops an arm around Sirius’ shoulder, plastering him to his side, before nodding towards Hope. “Ms. Howell you look exquisite.” 

Hope rolls her eyes and pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Thank you, James dear.”

James leads them inside, keeping up a constant stream of chatter about the estate for Sirius' benefit. Remus rolls his eyes, but does James the courtesy of keeping quiet. A maid greets them at the door, taking their coats and guiding them towards the drawing room, which is already full of guests milling about. Sitting in the corner is a towering fir tree, which nearly reaches the ceiling and is tastefully decorated in red and gold baubles.

A woman in her late fifties, hair greying at the temples, approaches them immediately, sweeping Remus and Hope into hugs. Sirius gathers that this is Euphemia Potter, James’ mum. She smiles benevolently as James makes the introductions. Sirius tries not to gawk as James dusts off his little used manners. 

“You're very pretty,” Euphemia says, giving Sirius a long measured look. James gives her a scandalized look, one that Remus is familiar with. He had used it frequently during their adolescence, most liberally when Euphemia would get within a few feet of Lily. 

Sirius beams. “I can read and write too, ma’am.”

Euphemia laughs, a tinkling sound that would make an etiquette coach swoon. She offers Sirius a kind, knowing smile. 

“And more I hear. I’ve heard lovely things from my son and, though he may be an unreliable narrator, he is a good judge of character.”

Euphemia’s eyes land on someone over Sirius’ shoulder and she excuses herself with a flourish, dress swishing around her ankles. Sirius watches as she glides towards the newly arrived guests, greeting them with a practiced smile. Hope disappears as well, having recognized some women from her crocheting group.

Sirius quirks a brow at Remus. “Unreliable narrator?”

Remus snickers.

“Lily and James had a unique relationship before they began dating, mostly communicated through insults and curses. Needless to say when Lily first met Euphemia they had a lot to talk about.” 

Sirius barks a laugh, causing some of the guests to offer him withering glares. Sirius suddenly remembers the parties of his childhood, the stiff formalities, the inedible food and the unbearable cloying fabric of bespoke suits. His breathing comes in spurts, waylaid by the tightening in his throat and the panic spreading across his chest. 

He tries to calm the pounding of his heart with long slow breaths, wishing desperately for the pills in the coat the maid had whisked away. Remus’ fingers are warm and firm on his elbow, helping to assuage most of the panic. Remus gazes at him in concern and Sirius smiles tightly, letting himself be steered towards hors d'oeuvres on gold rimmed china. 

**–**

The Potter Estate was always the site of Christmas Eve dinner, and had been since Remus’ father had left them. Hope had been reluctant to accept the invitation at first, wary of charity no matter how well meaning, but had been racked with guilt at not being able to provide Remus with a Christmas befitting previous years. They had shown up at the Potters with pound cake and had continued to do so for over a decade. 

Remus scans the room, watching as everyone indulges in Euphemia’s hors d’oeuvres and makes polite chit-chat. Sirius is at the other side of the room, having overcome whatever had left him wide eyed and racked with terror. He had brushed off Remus’ questions with his aristocrat’s smile. Remus watches as James abandons Sirius to the old biddies, who descend upon anyone under thirty and pry fruitlessly into love lives and careers. 

Before Remus can launch a valiant rescue mission he spots a shock of lilac hair. Dora appears at the door, Teddy in her arms and her mother at her elbow. They share a loaded look; they had attended this party together for three years. Remus makes a beeline for his son, who he has not seen these past two weeks, bravely approaching despite Andromeda standing just a few feet away, greeting Euphemia. Teddy reaches for Remus as he approaches. 

“Hullo,” Dora offers with a small smile. She places Teddy in his arms with no further comment, watching as Remus presses Teddy close to his chest reverently. 

“How are you?” Remus asks, tearing his eyes away from Teddy’s pinkened cheeks. 

Dora sighs. “I’ve moved back in with my parents.”

“And?” Remus asks, knowing how much Dora had celebrated when she had first moved away, basking in her escape from her parents’ overindulgent rules.

Dora shrugs. “It helps.”

She clenches her jaw, breath stuttering. 

“This time last year I was here alone and pregnant, making excuses for your absence.”

Remus recoils, accepting the barb without comment. There’s nothing to say, no apology would suffice. It’s not even the worst thing he’s done. Dora blinks tears out of her eyes. 

“I've got a new flat. I notified your lawyer,” Remus says instead, steadily looking away from her.

It was a condition of their shared custody that Remus find a suitable living arrangement in which he could be responsible for Teddy. Dora nods, looking down at their son fondly. There’s a commotion in the entryway and the Prewett brood piles in, children swarming their feet as they greet the Potters. 

The Prewetts had lost their fortune during the Second World War, a series of bad investments and irresponsible spending forcing them to open their estate to the public and relocate to a series of tasteful cottages on the outskirts of town. 

Gideon breaks away from the group and approaches Sirius and Lily, who are animatedly discussing the merits of some football team or another. Lily had apparently come to Sirius’ aid when Remus couldn’t. Sirius jostles Gideon and laughs, sipping amber liquid from a crystal glass. When Euphemia had offered them a selection of liquors Sirius hadn’t even blinked as he perused bottles that cost a small fortune. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Sirius had been brought up in a house that probably resembled this one. Remus mind falters, _bloody fucking hell._

“Oh.” Dora purses her lips. “I see.”

Remus tears his eyes away from Sirius and looks down at her, perplexed. He follows her gaze to where Sirius is offering Gideon a lopsided smile. He feels shame grip him. 

“It’s not like that,” Remus murmurs.

Dora snorts, collecting Teddy from his arms. “You used to be a better liar.” 

Dora hastens from the room and Remus’ involuntarily finds himself glancing towards Sirius. Sirius who is frowning after Dora and turning worried eyes to Remus. Remus’ heart constricts and he makes an aborted move towards the nearest tray of champagne, hand faltering in mid air. He flushes and stuffs his hand in his pocket. 

“Alright?” Sirius whispers, a firm grip on Remus’ elbow. Remus nods shakily, letting Sirius drag him towards the corner he and Lily have taken to occupying. Sirius’ whispered reassurances help to assuage most of the guilt. 

Hours later Gideon and Fabian pass around cigars and brandy, enticing even Hope. Lily takes long hearty puffs from hers while James tries to unsuccessfully muffle his coughs, waving off his mother’s concern. Remus is sprawled on the carpet, bathed in the warm glow of the fireplace, Sirius’ head pillowed on his thigh. No one offers Remus a drink and for once there is no pang as he watches the others indulge. 

When the clock strikes midnight a chorus of cheers and Christmas wishes rise up. Remus watches as Sirius smiles soppily at the display, mouth turned up into a genuine smile. He wonders how often Sirius smiles like that.

“Happy Christmas, Sirius,” Remus murmurs, threading his fingers through Sirius’ curls, for once thinking of nothing but the crook of Sirius’ mouth. 

**–**

Christmas morning dawns cloudy and gray, light filtering in through clouds and throwing Remus’ childhood bedroom into faded hues. Sirius pries his eyes open blearily, his head pounding and his body demanding additional rest. He’d only fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning, spending much of the night tangled in the sheets and prickled with sweat. 

He heaves himself out of bed and rummages inside his coat. Sirius reaches for the glass of water someone had thoughtfully left at his bedside and swallows four pills, already calmer in anticipation of their effects. Sirius dresses quickly, hearing the low murmur of conversation and childish glee coming from below. Dora had promised to drop Teddy off after noon and she must have kept her word despite whatever had occurred between her and Remus last night. 

Sirius comes downstairs to find Remus sitting at the table with Teddy in his lap, blowing raspberries and making ridiculous faces until the room is filled with peals of laughter. Teddy tries to grab at his father’s face with chubby fists. Remus chuckles and picks up his son, carrying him towards the fridge and scouring the shelves. 

“Can you hold him?” Remus asks, placing Teddy in Sirius’ arms distractedly as he continues to survey the fridge. 

Teddy looks up at Sirius in confusion, little face scrunched in displeasure. Sirius darts an alarmed look at Remus, not at all prepared for a screaming baby this soon after waking up. Remus whoops victoriously, bottle in hand. He turns towards Sirius and his face softens, then falters. He scrutinizes Sirius with a frown. 

“Are you fucking high?” Remus barks, wrenching Teddy from Sirius’ arms and cradling him close to his chest. Teddy whines, face crumpling at the sound of his father’s raised voice. 

Sirius throws up his arms placatingly. “It’s just a few–”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Remus yells, causing Teddy to sniffle and redden before letting out a wail. 

Teddy begins crying in earnest despite Remus’ best attempts to soothe him. Sirius’ mind lags, tripping over itself as it tries to register the sight of Remus’ muscles tense with the effort of holding back his anger. He knows he should stammer out an apology or plead forgiveness but he feels numbingly calm, unable to muster up the guilt and urgency the situation calls for. 

Once Teddy has calmed, Remus places him in his high chair and drags Sirius into the adjacent living room, keeping the door open so he can see the baby over Sirius' shoulder. Sirius’ mind screeches its displeasure, demanding he shrink in fear, but his body won’t cooperate, fuzzy in the face of Remus’ anger.

“I don’t care what personal shit you’re working through. You can’t get high around my kid, do you understand that? God, what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

_That is the million dollar question, isn’t it?_ Sirius thinks, a tendril of hysterical laughter almost bubbling out of him. Remus is flushed with rage, jaw clenched tightly and shoulders raised as if bracing for a fight.

“It won’t happen again,” Sirius murmurs. 

Remus laughs humorlessly. “That won’t be a fucking problem since you’ll never get near my kid again, not ever.”

Remus prowls towards Sirius and for the very first time Sirius is aware of just how much taller Remus is, towering over him easily. 

“I’m in custody negotiations with Dora, Sirius. Do you know what could happen if she knew–” Remus pushes his fringe away from his forehead, eyes flicking towards Teddy. “I could lose my kid, Sirius. I could lose Teddy.”

Remus stills, eyes roving over Sirius. “You have the stuff on you, don’t you?”

Sirius refrains from reaching for his back pocket. Remus must read the truth of it on his face. 

“Oh god, you need to leave. This was a bad idea.”

Sirius notices with an almost clinical detachment that Remus’ hands are shaking where he’s fisted them at his sides. 

Sirius blinks. “What?”

Remus lowers his voice and speaks slowly, so slowly it’s almost menacing. “Get your stuff. I’m giving you a ride to the station.” 

Sirius flinches and shakes his head, pushing away from Remus and gathering space between them. 

“Remus, please. I’m sorry, I didn’t–” Sirius trails off as Remus shakes his head, unmoved by his pleas. 

Sirius searches for something else, something to make him understand, something to smooth the furrow between his brow and quell his shaking hands. Sirius makes to reach for Remus, for what purpose he isn’t quite sure, but Remus jerks away so violently he stumbles against the bookcase behind him.

“Get the fuck out,” Remus snarls. 

Sirius’ head lolls against the cab’s backseat, throat tight with the stubborn pinprick of tears that won’t fall. He gives the cabbie the address, the words thick on his tongue. Remus watches from the front window as the cab pulls away, Teddy on his hip.

 _You’ve done it. You’ve finally done it. The irredeemable._ Sirius thinks, stunned and half-mad with longing. 

–

Sirius blinks up at the ceiling as Rodolphus laves a tongue over his nipple, trailing lower and lower. His fingers tingle where they’re buried in Rodolphus’ locks and he pulls hard, bringing the other man’s mouth up to his. 

“I was surprised you called,” Rodolphus murmurs against his lips, “It’s been months since I last saw you.” 

Sirius scowls and pushes Rodolphus further down his body. “Bad day.”

Rodolphus gives him a cheeky grin and continues his descent down Sirius’ body without further prompting. Sirius keeps his eyes open, blearily taking in the moonlight bathed ceiling and swirling shadows. His skin prickles with goosebumps but he feels pleasantly warm despite the open window. Sirius’ gaze dwells on the snow peppering the rooftops outside, heavy with new flurries. 

“Happy Christmas,” Sirius slurs, a wild hiccuping laugh escaping him. 


	10. Marauders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta Scarlett_Lucian!

**_February 26th, 1982_ **

“I need you in the studio tomorrow, Remus,” Peter says without preamble. 

Remus winces, contemplating the consequences of crinkling his newspaper into the receiver and hanging up. Peter is right though, as he usually is, damn him. Remus has already left it too long, making excuses when none will do. They should have started recording the album weeks ago. 

“It’s been two months since you finished writing. We need to record,” Peter says firmly, echoing Remus’ thoughts. “Now.”

Remus pokes at his eggs forlornly, appetite having dissipated upon hearing the tenor of Peter’s voice. Peter sighs, weary. Remus imagines their manager pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering under his breath the way he is prone to do when Gideon and Frank have trashed a hotel room or that one time they had to rescue Marlene when she'd been arrested for indecent exposure. 

“The rest of the band has agreed, eagerly even. But they seem unwilling to broach the subject with you.” 

Remus glances across from him, where Dorcas is steeping her tea and happily munching on a piece of buttered toast. She arches a brow at him as she bites into the bread, crumbs falling everywhere. 

The rest of the band has no idea what had occurred over Christmas, not even James. Remus had been thrumming with anger for days, unwilling to discuss the topic with anyone for fear of fuelling his anger. The only distraction had come in the joys of Teddy’s first Christmas, the wide-eyed stare at presents he could no more make sense of than open himself and the never ending childlike laughter filling every corner of the house. 

He should never have invited Sirius to Henley, knowing what he knows about Sirius’ bad habits. He knows better than that. Remus can’t help the sliver of guilt that runs through him every time he pictures Sirius’ glassy eyes and downturned mouth, the defeated slump of his shoulders as he’d slipped into the cab. 

Remus had done horrible things while on a cocktail of far worse drugs, yet there was no gaining perspective with Teddy in Sirius’ arms. He wants to apologize, not for protecting his family, but for acting as if Sirius is someone undeserving of his compassion. Sirius is sick and Remus knows that better than anyone. Yet even knowing all this, Remus is ill-equipped to deal with this simmering anger he has at Sirius for endangering his son. It’s overpowering and illogical but it’s there. 

“I’ll be in the studio tomorrow,” Remus says, reluctance tugging at every syllable. 

Peter hangs up without saying goodbye. Remus returns to the newspaper in his lap, perusing the international news section mindlessly. 

“It's about time,” Dorcas murmurs.

Remus peers at her over the paper. “Fuck off.”

Dorcas snorts and swipes Remus’ piece of toast with a satisfied smile. 

–

“What happened to Crouch?” Gideon asks as he strides into the recording studio, eyes on Shacklebolt sitting at the soundboard. Shacklebolt pays him no mind, Peter seems adept at finding people unphased, unimpressed even, by The Six.

“Tax evasion,” Peter grunts, tickering with the soundboard despite Shacklebolt’s best efforts to thwart him. 

Shacklebolt is their newest music producer and has been enlisted because his work with The Death Eaters had launched them to the top of the charts, despite them being rather mediocre musicians. It also helps that he’s a frequent guest at the Palace’s more rambunctious parties, garnering him favour with the band. It's hard not to admire a man who can do a keg stand one-handed. 

Remus plucks at his sweater, trying to keep his eyes averted from the door, anticipating Sirius’ arrival. Dorcas places a soothing hand on his arm, trying to temper his restlessness. The recording studio is already loud with the constant stream of anecdotes and mindless chatter that follows The Six everywhere. 

James is in the process of recounting his weekend in Manchester with Lily, luckily without the dirty bits thanks to a can of diet coke and Marlene’s fantastic aim. Unluckily, Marlene has been put in a time out for endangering the equipment and is currently sitting in the hall, using her foot to prop the door open in order to continue antagonizing James.

“For fuck’s sake, James. No one needs a hundred peonies delivered to their doorstep.” 

“Well, of course no one _needs_ –” James starts.

“Wasteful,” Dorcas mutters under her breath.

“Peonies, man?” Frank asks, looking up from his guitar. 

“Sirius!” Marlene cries, nudging open the door for him. Thankfully, Marlene’s cry distracts James from what is no doubt a passionate defense of peonies.

Sirius saunters in, lips pursed around a cigarette, and is met with a chorus of good natured greetings. A simple hullo lodges itself in Remus’ throat. Sirius smiles at the room at large, gaze listless, and goes to clap Shacklebolt on the shoulder. Remus’ eyes lingers on the way Sirius leans into Shacklebolt, grinning bashfully. _Bigger problems_ , Remus reminds himself even as he continues to glare at where Sirius’ hands rest on Shacklebolt’s very broad shoulders.

Sirius’ eyes flicks towards him, almost as if on their own accord, and Remus tilts his head towards him, a half nod of apology. Sirius’ expression shutters, lips pressed together tightly, and turns away. 

Remus’ head falls back against the couch. “I don’t think I’m forgiven.” 

Dorcas arches a brow. “Is there anything to forgive?”

“I think so.”

Dorcas snorts in disbelief.

Remus frowns. “You don’t know what happened.”

Her surety that Sirius is the one that has instigated their rift is well meaning but misplaced. It was less about who was at fault and more a culmination of poor decision making on both their parts. Sirius should not have gotten high and Remus should not have naively acted as if the Christmas holidays are a moratorium on addiction. 

Dorcas wrinkles her nose, gaze flitting towards Sirius. “That is not the look of an innocent man.”

Remus glances towards Sirius and suddenly sees what Dorcas means. He hadn’t noticed before, too bowled over by being near Sirius again after so long, but Sirius looks pale and drawn out, jeans hanging loose on his hips. His face is waxy and there’s a slight sheen to his brow. 

“Remus, let’s get started,” Shacklebolt barks. 

Sirius is already in the soundbooth, eyes downcast as he adjusts the microphone on the other side of the glass. Remus closes the door behind him, dampening the sound and throwing them into hushed silence. Sirius and Remus watch tensely as Shacklebolt tweaks with the dials. Sirius is angled towards the glass, as if Remus isn’t standing two feet away from him. James, sitting to Shacklebolt’s left, gives them a thumbs up. 

This album is a perfect amalgamation of both Sirius and Remus, an outpouring of hours of work and waste baskets full of discarded words. It feels wrong to stand here, a few feet from Sirius, and not acknowledge that. 

Shacklebolt leans towards the microphone. “Alright lads, let’s start with ‘Fickle Fun.’ I like this one for the first single.” 

Sirius stiffens beside him. It’s the love ballad Sirius had written on his own, the one that had breathed life back into their creative streak. Remus nods in Shacklebolt’s direction as a rough crescendo of chords begins to play in his ears. Remus stares, puzzled, as Sirius’ fingers flutter nervously around the microphone. 

Sirius falters as he comes in on the chorus. 

–

The meeting is taking place in the gym of a primary school in West London. The walls are painted in bright colours and motivational sayings, at odds with the purpose of the meeting to an almost comical degree. Minerva is sitting in a too-small red plastic chair adorned with butterfly stickers and yet she still manages to appear poised and unruffled. The meeting is composed of the same crowd from months ago, minus the one musician who had reentered rehab over the holidays. 

“Let’s all give Mr. Lupin a warm welcome back,” Minerva says, kind eyes turning towards him. 

There’s a smattering of reluctant applause and murmured welcomes. 

“Anything you would like to share?”

Remus shakes his head, hoping for a reprieve since it’s his first meeting back.

Minerva cocks her head. “No? I find that hard to believe.”

Remus pauses and wets his lips, still intimidated by the near deafening silence which swathes the room when Minerva speaks, even the ritzy banker and arrogant musicians keep their mouths shut. 

“I’ve split up with my girlfriend and moved out of our place. Looking to share the kid though, at least when I’m in town.”

Remus speaks quickly, words tumbling into the silence in a rush. 

“And?” 

Minerva always posed these open ended questions with no clear direction, prompting you to elaborate to an embarrassing degree: _So? And? What about it?_

“And I’m relieved,” Remus murmurs. 

Minerva nods in satisfaction, turning away from him. Narcissa places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Remus shoots her a grateful smile. 

After, when everyone has disappeared into sleek back towncars and escaped into London’s dense evening traffic, Remus bites into a stale donut and drinks watery coffee with Narcissa at his side. She peppers him with questions about the tour and Teddy and Remus fills her in half-heartedly, his mind already on going home to his empty flat. 

“Did something happen over the holidays?”

Remus jolts, tepid coffee spilling on his hand. “Why do you ask?”

Narcissa’ gaze is assessing, probing even. “Dora’s lawyer is putting up roadblocks.”

Remus groans. Dora’s accusing words echo in his mind, _you used to be a better liar_. 

“I’ll talk to her.”

“If she doesn’t cooperate the chances of you getting anything more than visitations is slim.”

Narcissa eyes are sympathetic but her tone is firm. The warning is clear, there’s no time for personal squabbles. 

“Very slim,” Narcissa repeats, staring at him suspiciously. 

“I’ll talk to her,” Remus promises again. 

Narcissa nods in satisfaction and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I have to meet a client. I’ll see you next week.” 

Remus stares blankly at the tray of stale donuts for several minutes. He wonders when things got so complicated, when he became this person who the courts would deem untrustworthy. When caring for his own kid became this convoluted mess of regret and guilt and anger.

–

Remus wakes to someone thumping on the front door. He grumbles and scoops the nearest pair of pants off the floor, sliding into them with difficulty. The sun is only just creeping up over London, dousing his flat in pockets of light. 

“What the–” Remus stops. “James?”

James pushes into the flat. “What the bloody fuck happened between you and Sirius?”

Remus blinks stupidly, brain still muddled with sleep. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know.” James shrugs, unapologetic and chipper. “Early.”

“Is this really this urgent?”

“Yes!” James cries, flapping his arms around his head to punctuate his point. 

Remus tries to hush him but it’s too late, Teddy has already started fussing and emitting high pitched whines. Remus groans, letting his chin drop to his chest, and James winces, giving him an apologetic look. Remus follows Teddy’s cries back into the bedroom, scooping up his son from the crib at the foot of the bed and trying to assuage his cries by babbling nonsense at him. 

Remus carries Teddy into the kitchen, where James has thankfully already put the kettle on and taken a seat at the table. Remus plops Teddy down into James’ lap as he goes to fetch a bottle for his son. James makes cooing noises at Teddy. 

“Sirius is avoiding all of us, except Lily for some reason, and you haven’t been to the Palace in months.”

Remus scrubs a hand over his face, eyes still heavy with sleep. “It’s not important.”

James looks away from Teddy, who is surprised enough by the presence of someone other than his father that he has stopped crying momentarily.

“Do you want him out of the band?”

“What–” Remus startles. “No!”

James sighs, gazing at Remus critically. “You should talk to him.”

Remus snorts. “And say what?”

“I don’t know since you won’t tell me what bloody happened,” James grumbles.

Remus sighs and takes Teddy from James’ arms, coaxing the bottle into the baby’s mouth. He doesn’t want to skew James’ perspective of Sirius or endanger their budding friendship over something that Remus has come to terms with, more or less anyway. Remus knows James and he knows James will react with righteous anger. 

Remus presses a kiss to Teddy’s forehead, cradling him close. Despite Remus’ anger at Sirius for placing Teddy in harm's way, however little the risk, he has already forgiven him. The problem wasn’t forgiveness, the problem was that Remus had been forced to confront the consequences of Sirius’ addiction and he wasn’t sure how Sirius fit into his life anymore. 

“I’ll fix it.”

James raises a dubious eyebrow. 

Remus smiles wanly. “I promise.”

James huffs, crossing his arms, his earlier indignation already fading. “You got anything to eat?”

Remus laughs and waves James towards the fridge, unwilling to make the twat breakfast after being roused at the crack of dawn. 

–

“James, for fuck’s sake I’m–” Remus stops, staring at where Marlene and Frank are loitering in the hall. 

Remus gapes at them, unsure whether to invite them in or not. “Have you come to kill me?” 

“We have a present for you,” Marlene says serenely. 

Remus tries very hard not to flinch, expecting a pie to the face or something similar. 

Frank snorts a laugh. “We heard you needed a couch.”

They part to reveal James’ hideous couch, Loch Ness, sitting behind them. Remus stares at the couch with something akin to dawning horror. Even against the stark wide backdrop of the hallway the thing is an ugy glaring atrocity. 

Marlene grins, all guileless wide eyes. “It’s a peace offering.”

“You stole James’ couch as a peace offering?” Remus asks slowly, unsure how to react. 

Frank’s smile turns wolfish. “Everyone wins.”

“Except me,” Remus mutters. 

“You get our tenuous, conditional friendship back.”

“You need it. Especially, given whatever happened with–” Marlene elbows Frank sharply, darting an innocent glance towards Remus. 

“I take the couch and we’re square?” Remus says, not willing to submit himself to staring at this crime against upholstery unless it’s for a good cause. Marlene and Frank exchange a look.

Marlene shrugs. “More or less.”

 _Close enough,_ Remus thinks dryly.

“Bring her in.”

Marlene and Frank manhandle Loch Ness into the flat, grunting under the weight. Remus’ flat is still sparsely furnished despite having lived here for almost two months. The couch is an unwelcome addition. They all stare at it with their heads cocked to the side. 

Marlene squints. “Maybe it would look better against another wall.”

–

Peter is tapping his foot impatiently, glancing down at his watch for the third time in as many minutes and muttering under his breath about no good photographers. 

“I want to show you’re tough! Rockers! Bah!” Peter waves his arms, staring at the Palace in consternation. “Living in Kensington doesn’t really send the right message.”

Dorcas rolls her eyes. “Half of us grew up on estates.”

“It wasn’t an estate,” Gideon gripes. 

Dorcas raises a challenging brow and Gideon snaps his mouth closed with an audible click. James and Sirius are suspiciously quiet, suddenly very interested in anything other than the conversation. Remus snickers. 

Peter waves them off. “Avoid mentioning that to the reporters.”

The photographer, Lockhart, arrives twenty minutes later in a swirl of golden curls, touting a heavy camera and striding past Peter as if he’s of no consequence. Peter just scrubs a hand over his face and looks heavenward. Remus wonders if he’s praying for patience or retirement.

They begin on the stoop, sprawled haphazardly on the steps and leaning against the railings. They try over a dozen positions, everyone grinning through gritted teeth as Lockhart tweaks an elbow here and a fringe there. 

Remus is sitting at Gideon’s feet, lying with his head in Marlene's lap. Sirius is somewhere to his left, trying to achieve a smoldering pout as instructed by Lockhart. Lockhart steps back and claps his hands together, studying the finished product with an aggrieved sigh.

“There’s too many of you,” Lockhart says, at a loss. 

“We know!” The band cries in unison. Lockhart takes a startled step back. 

“Black! Lupin! Let’s get a few shots just the two of you,” Peter calls, apparently fed up with Lockhart’s simpering. 

Frank bristles while Gideon sags in relief, mussing his hair where Lockhart had combed it back. Remus shoots them all an apologetic look as he follows Lockhart inside the house. 

“Let's get a few simple shots on the–” Lockahrt stops, distressed. “There’s no sofa.”

“Trust me, it’s for the best,” Sirius says, smiling cheerily. Lockhart blinks at him.

“What about the balcony?” Peter crowds them up the stairs, apparently eager to ward off Lockhart’s impending mental breakdown. 

Sirius and Remus are posed side by side, plastered together from shoulder to fingertip. Remus avoids looking at Sirius, heady from the sensation of being pressed so close to him. Lockhart tuts and tries placing them back to back. Sirius snickers and makes a gun sign in an imitation of James Bond.

“Mind if I smoke?” Sirius asks after another ten minutes of Lockhart treating them like dolls. 

Lockhart nods distractedly, tilting his head and watching as Sirius lights up his cigarette and lounges against the balcony. Lockhart gasps and hurries inside, dragging a footstool out on the balcony between them. He manhandles Sirius into it, posing him with his head tilted over the railing. 

Remus white knuckles the railing in front of him as Sirius looks up at him through his lashes, eyes dark and half-lidded, lips curled around his cigarette. Remus' eyes linger of their own accord on the dip of Sirius’ mouth. Sirius hands him the cigarette and he takes a drag to soothe his nerves, finally tearing his eyes away from Sirius and looking out towards the simmering skyline. 

The album cover is a close up of Remus and Sirius on the balcony. Sirius’ head tilted over the railing, the slope of his jaw in sharp relief and saturated in shadows. Sirius is staring up at Remus, though you can’t tell who it is at that angle. His curls tumble over the railing and out of frame, fading to black. Remus’ fingers and forearms are visible where he’s clutching at the railing, cigarette tucked between them. Smoke unfurls from the cigarette, snaking its way up towards the title, _Marauders_.

It’s oddly intimate, the scene almost a touch post-coital. 

–

James and Dorcas are fine tuning the instrumentals for ‘Do You Regret That Now?’ which is Remus’ favorite song on the album, despite its rather bleak tone. It’s not lost on Remus that some of their best songs were written largely by Sirius, though he would be hard pressed to admit to anyone, even at gunpoint. He has a reputation after all. 

Sirius is laying down his vocals for the song while Shacklebolt supervises critically. Sirius is at his best on this song, voice deep and dripping with sorrow. He croons into the microphone with the sort of fevered intensity which draws in crowds and makes the front two rows weep with want. Shacklebolt is listening with his mouth agape. 

“Was that alright?” Sirius asks from inside the booth. 

Remus scowls as Shacklebolt blinks and stumbles over reassurances. Remus turns away, catching Peter’s gaze as he strides in followed by a slim blonde. She’s wearing a flattering mauve pantsuit, blonde curls pinned unforgivingly in some complicated updo. Remus takes the opportunity to escape Shacklebolt’s awestruck rambling, approaching them with an easy smile. 

“Remus!” Peter claps him on the back. “This is Rita Skeeter from New Musical Express.”

Remus quirks a brow in surprise, _great publication_. Dora used to read it religiously, pouring over the magazine and reading aloud her favourite quotes over her morning cuppa. The magazine had steered a lot of their record purchases when they had lived together. 

“They want to do a profile on the band ahead of the album release. She’ll be around for a few days. Make her feel welcome.”

Remus hears the unspoken warning. He smiles charmingly, a façade he hasn’t had much use for recently. 

“Miss Skeeter, was it?”

Skeeter nods primly, glancing around in fascination. Remus introduces himself and begins filling her in on the upcoming album, steering her towards where the rest of the band is now assembled, pouring over the soundboard and complimenting Sirius on a great track. Sirius shrugs off their compliments but he’s flushed from the praise. Remus clears his throat to grab their attention, eyes lingering on the flush creeping up Sirius' neck.

“This is Miss Skeeter from NME. She’s doing a profile on us.” 

Gideon opens his mouth and Remus quells whatever inane comment he has prepared with a look. Gideon snaps his mouth shut audibly and smiles warmly at Skeeter, getting up and throwing an arm around her shoulders. Remus rolls his eyes as Gideon immediately begins monopolizing her attention. 

“Everyone on their best behaviour,” Remus orders, glancing over his shoulder to where Gideon is chatting animatedly with the journalist. She’s leaning towards him in interest, pen flying across her notebook.

“Yes, sir.” Marlene salutes him sarcastically. 

Remus shakes his head. “Fuck off.”

James pointedly looks towards Sirius, who is arguing with Shacklebolt about pitch. 

Remus sighs. “Sirius, can we talk?” 

Sirius looks up in surprise, gaze wary. Marlene and Frank make ominous _ooh_ sounds, as if Sirius is about to be scolded by the headmaster. James swats at them, silencing any more juvenile sounds. 

Remus points towards the hall and Sirius nods, excusing himself from Shacklebolt. Remus is tempted to stick his tongue out at the man, probably would have if Shacklebolt wasn’t capable of crushing his skull with his bare hands. 

Sirius paces the length of the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets. Remus wonders if it’s to hide the tremors. Remus laces his fingers behind his back, to prevent himself from reaching for Sirius. 

“I’m sorry about throwing you out on Christmas.” 

Sirius looks up at him abruptly, something unreadable flitting across his face. 

“Jesus, Remus. I don’t want your apology.” 

Remus blinks and chews at his bottom lip, surprised at Sirius’ vehemence. 

“I fucked up. I shouldn’t have brought that stuff into your home, around your kid, any of it.” 

Remus nods carefully, acknowledging the truth of it. This is going a lot smoother than he had anticipated. 

“I get it. You don’t have the space for a fuck up like me in your life.” 

Remus’ eyes widen. “Sirius, that’s not–”

“Really? Because that’s what it felt like when you banished me from your home on Christmas.”

Remus clenches his jaw, anger bubbling up inside him. “I can’t have that kind of thing around Teddy. Not ever.” 

Sirius runs a hand through his hair. “God, I know. I know. I’m sorry. I am.”

Remus blinks, he’s getting whiplash from this conversation.

“I didn’t mean to, I just–”

“Couldn’t help yourself,” Remus murmurs. 

Sirius nods. “It’ll never happen again. I swear it.”

Remus snorts derisively, “I know it won’t. You’re never getting near my kid again.”

Sirius flinches and Remus softens immediately. 

“I’m sorry, Sirius. I am, honestly. But Teddy is everything. He’s the only thing, really.”

Sirius nods. “Right.”

Silence settles between them, an uncomfortable self-imposed thing, obstructing their ability to heal the rift. Remus doesn’t know what else to say. 

“I should–” Remus thumbs over his shoulder, motioning to the studio behind him. He turns away from Sirius and catches a swathe of mauve in his peripheral vision but when he turns his head there’s nothing there. Remus shakes his head, exhausted, and reenters the studio. 

James pounces on him immediately, tugging him away from the others. Remus sees the others crane to hear them, Marlene almost toppling over in her attempts to do so.

“How'd it go?” James whispers, loudly. 

Remus looks at James, still a bit dazed. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

–

Sirius stares after Remus’ retreating back with a near suffocating longing. If there had ever been any chance for something between them it had evaporated when Remus had ripped Teddy from his arms. Sirius slides down the wall, sitting on the floor instead of rejoining the others. He lets his head fall back against the wall and wonders why can’t seem to do anything right by Remus. 

He had meant to apologize properly, to own up to his own failures and admit that he had regretted very little as much as he had regretted forcing Remus to lose faith in him. Instead he had let his wounded pride get the better of him, spewing forth all the hurt and betrayal he felt. 

Sirius places two pills on the tip of his tongue and reenters the studio. James and Remus are sequestered in the corner, talking in low urgent whispers. Remus gives him a small genuine smile and Sirius’ stomach lurches, guilt gnawing at him.

–

It takes them two weeks to finish recording the album. They celebrate at the pub down the block, piling into a booth in the back and waving down the waitress Frank has taken a liking to. The Skeeter woman joins them, it’s her last night with them before she has to hammer out the article. They play nice, the knowledge that they will soon be rid of her simpering and prying making them jubilant. 

Remus has joined them, siping a glass of water with no qualms and watching eagerly as Frank chats up the waitress to no avail. He’s tinged pink with the force of his laughter, smile wide and unburdened. Sirius wonders if he will ever again provoke such a reaction from Remus. If he will ever be graced with more than small smiles and nods, polite and restrained, no indication that they have spent the better part of five months at each other’s backs. 

Sirius excuses himself for a smoke, the frigid air a balm to his tumultuous thoughts. Sirius muffles a sigh when Skeeter pries the door open, slipping out after him. 

She sidles up next to him. “May I ask you a question?”

Sirius nods, lighting his cigarette. He could go back inside but he’s not quite ready to face his shifting dynamic with Remus. Out here he can pretend, pretend that when he steps back into the pub Remus will look up at him, flushed with laughter and smile blindingly. 

“Does Mr. Lupin really believe he will be granted custody of his child?”

Sirius stiffens, taking a deep longful from his cigarette to buy himself some time. He lets his face go slack, smoothing his features into blankness. It’s a skill he had perfected at a young age, staring into Walburga’s fierce eyes with childlike naivety, pockets heavy with the shards of a broken heirloom. 

“Remus doesn’t have a child.” Sirius tries for lack of anything else.

No one knows about Teddy. No one. Peter had strong armed staff into non-disclosure agreements to ensure that his existence was kept out of the press. Remus hardly ever took him out in public unless it was a matter of necessity. Dora’s name wasn’t even well known, only ever mentioned in the first few articles that had ever come out about the band. Teddy’s existence has been shrouded from the public with dedicated intensity. 

Skeeter laughs. “I’m a good journalist, Mr. Black.”

Sirius keeps his eyes on the convenience store across the street, neon lettering flickering and bathing the sidewalk in an orange glow. He scrambles for some way to divert her attention, to deny her this story. 

“I wonder how the public will react when they find out Mr. Lupin was in rehab at the time of his son’s birth.”

Sirius clenches his fists. 

“Quite the scandal.” Skeeter smirks. “Even for a rockstar.”

Sirius growls and stubs his cigarette out under his heel. He faces Skeeter with a near feral intensity. “You can’t publish that.”

“I can,” Skeeter says with a shrug, “And I will.”

“It will ruin him. His family,” Sirius argues, his tone veering towards desperate, attempting to cajole sympathy, guilt, anything.

“He doesn’t much seem to care for his family.” 

Sirius feels a fury crest in him. Remus doesn’t deserve to have his private life smeared across the tabloids, least of all his most intimate and painful regrets. Missing the birth of his son, stepping out on Dora while she was pregnant. It isn’t right. 

Sirius stops, considering. His hands shake as he lights another cigarette, hardly believing what he’s about to do.

“What if I can get you a better story?”

Skeeter blinks, surprise flitting across her face. She tries to emulate nonchalance but Sirius can see her eagerness in the twitch of her lips. _Vulture bitch_ , Sirius thinks nastily. 

“What kind of story?” Skeeter asks calmly, feigning disinterest. 

Sirius smirks. “Ever heard of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?”

Skeeter’s eyes widen and the cigarette falls from her fingertips.


	11. Lead Singer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I'm so sorry for the long wait. Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos! 
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta Scarlett_Lucian

**_March 9th, 1982_ **

Sirius scrubs a hand over his face and stares down at the latest issue of _New Musical Express_ with a grimace. It’s bad, very, very bad. It’s actually a tad worse than he had imagined. Sirius’ face is splashed across the glossy cover, smirking up at him through a curtain of black hair. Sirius scowls down at himself, eyes roving over the headline for the hundredth time, _Sirius Black & The Six: How Black Family Abuse Inspired Lead Singer. _

_Lead singer,_ Sirius sighs, _Remus is going to fucking kill him._

Sirius is pouring bourbon into his already tepid coffee when there’s a knock on the door. He stares through the peephole: the figure is distorted by the lens but still recognizable by a head of carefully gelled curly hair. 

“Shit,” Sirius curses, taking a second look and praying his eyes have deceived him. “Bleeding fucking hell.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Regulus calls from the other side of the door.

Sirius flushes and takes three hearty gulps from his mug before he turns the lock. Regulus stands rigid in the doorway, sharp features pinched into a frown. 

“I read an interesting article about you,” Regulus starts, pushing into the flat. “New album was it? Congratulations.” 

Regulus’ tone is biting, words dripping with practiced aristocratic iciness. Sirius is familiar with the tone, it’s an almost perfect imitation of their mother. He’s tempted to applaud. 

“I have to say, I truly never expected this. You’ve finally managed to shock me,” Regulus continues, navigating the familiar waters of sarcasm. 

This is how most of their conversations take shape. Regulus, icy and sarcastic, always on the attack, questioning when he doesn’t need to be. Sirius, stubborn and indignant, trying to keep up enough to play defense. The illusion of civility is tenuous at best. 

“No easy feat,” Sirius says. 

Regulus hums his assent, peering at the flat, eyes combing over Sirius’ meager belongings with a frown. Sirius crosses his arms, fingers digging into skin. Regulus has been to the flat before, every Boxing Day since Sirius had moved here in fact, but still acted surprised by the state of his flat every single time. As if owning furniture that wasn’t worth a small fortune was somehow degrading. Regulus wrinkled his nose at Sirius’ sofa but Sirius really couldn’t find fault in that. 

“It’s all true,” Sirius mutters, picking at his fingernails lest Regulus read something in his expression. They had eerily similar tells. 

Regulus scoffs. “What does that matter?”

Sirius shrugs. “People deserve to know the truth.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Regulus gives an indignant snort. “You expect me to believe you had no ulterior motive? That you did all this for the _truth_.”

“Maybe I was just sick of lying about our _perfect_ family.”

Regulus frowns. “I have the press hounding me. Asking if I can corroborate your story.”

“You could.”

“I won’t,” Regulus spits. 

Sirius huffs, swaying a little, alcohol swamping his mind, dulling the sharp edges of Regulus’ words at long last. 

Regulus stops, eyes drifting towards Sirius mug. “Have you been drinking?” 

Sirius looks away, gaze landing on the kitchen cabinets behind Regulus. “That’s none of your business.”

Regulus’ shoulders slump and he rubs a hand across his face. “I get them too.”

“What?”

Regulus waves at him, the motion reads like exhaustion. 

“The nightmares, the anxiety, the constant looking over your shoulder, the flinching and shying away from others.”

Regulus pauses, staring at Sirius with a sort of knowing, chilling certainty. He doesn’t bother to ask whether he’s hit the mark. He knows he’s encompassed all that makes Sirius feel small and weak. 

“You think I don’t know how difficult this is? I sit across from them every Sunday.”

Sirius flinches, remembering wide eyes from around the door jam as he had slipped out of the house among his mother’s disparaging slurs. The whispered, fleeting plea that had fallen from Regulus’ lips lost to the sound of the closing door. 

Regulus sighs. “Talk to a therapist, not the press.”

Regulus shuts the door behind. Sirius stirs more bourbon into his coffee. 

–

Remus steps into the Palace with Teddy on his hip and a diaper bag slung across his shoulder. Teddy is blinking sleepily, fists curled into the fabric of Remus’ jumper. Remus was usually wary about being seen out with Teddy but James had called, the band shouting in the background, and Remus had felt compelled to make an appearance. The baby also had the inadvertent effect of distracting people from Remus. People's eyes slid right past Remus and went dewy eyed at the sight of Teddy. 

Voices filter in from the living room, causing Teddy to look towards the noise with wide eyes. 

“Did you see it?” James asks as soon as Remus crosses the threshold.

“I saw it.” Remus perches on the arm of the couch, next to Dorcas, and places Teddy in Marlene’s waiting arms, smiling softly as she blows a raspberry against Teddy’s cheek. 

He had seen the magazine on his way over, Sirius' face staring up at him from the newspaper rack two blocks from his flat. Dorcas holds up a copy of the magazine to him now, finger pressed to the dime sized photo of the band in the corner. She handles the magazine as if she would rather rip it to pieces. 

_It’s a great photo_ , Remus admits begrudgingly. Sirius’ dark tresses falling across his cheekbones, lips pulled into his stage smile, false and tinged with hidden intentions. The band is a mere footnote, musical backup for _lead singer_ Sirius Black. That rankled. 

“Lead singer!” Marlene cries, echoing his thoughts and attempting to elicit a reaction from him. Remus cards a hand through his hair, trying to rearrange his thoughts. 

“This is going to completely eclipse our album,” Gideon says disdainfully. 

_Gideon_ , who is typically unflappable and solely concerned with where his next pint is coming from. Remus opens his mouth but then thinks better of it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to engage with a pissed off Gideon. He was one those happy go lucky types and those were always the ones who got bloodthirsty when angered. 

Frank points at Gideon in agreement. “It’s all anyone will talk about.”

Remus hums. “It’ll boost album sales.”

“Bit of a sob story,” James says, a bit more sympathetically.

“Everyone will come to see Sirius from here on out,” Marlene argues. 

Dorcas nods. “Disgraced Black family heir. It’s a big draw.”

“It’s very rock’n’roll,” Remus offers weakly. James blinks at him.

“Peter will be thrilled,” Gideon mutters. 

James leans over then, voice low and eyes trained on their bickering bandmates. “Thought you’d be more pissed about this.”

Remus huffs, thoughts swirling. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“What?”

“Sirius–” Remus stops, brow furrowed. “Talking to the press about his family.”

James shrugs. “Maybe he’s more of a fame whore than we thought.”

Remus shakes his head, dismissing James’ words. Admittedly, Sirius is a bit of an attention seeker but that’s hardly unusual when it came to musicians. It was more a given than anything else. Sirius went to great pains to hide his lineage from them. It seemed a tad ludicrous to hide his family life only to go and have it splash across the front page. Within hours the story will be picked up by less reputable tabloids and soon enough Sirius won’t be able to leave his flat without getting harrassed. Everything he had spent the last four years running from was about to catch up with him. 

The phone blares from the coffee table. No one even looks up. It rings again, cutting through the tense silence. James huffs and heaves himself up, reaching for the phone behind him. 

“‘Lo.”

James tenses, darting a look towards them. 

“No, I understand. I do. I do,” James says tightly.

“I’ll tell them.” James' gaze slides towards him. “Yes, Remus too. ”

“What is it?” Dorcas asks. 

“They want to swap the single.”

Everyone darts worried looks towards Remus. Marlene even holds her breath. Frank goes so far as to inch his chair further away from him. 

“They want–”

“‘Do You Regret That Now?’” Remus says, reaching for Teddy. Marlene relinquishes him with a pout. 

James nods. “Sirius’ song.”

“The one about his parents.”

They all heave collective sighs. Marlene’s got her head in her hands and Gideon has already gone to fetch a bottle of something alcoholic. Frank mutters something disparaging under his breath. Dorcas looks bored, as usual, but there is a tightening in the corners of her mouth which betrays her displeasure. 

“It’ll boost album sales,” Remus reiterates, somewhat lamely. 

“Let’s get drunk,” Dorcas says, ignoring him. 

Gideon points at her as he returns to the living room, a bottle of vodka firmly in his grasp. “For once, we’re on the same page.” 

Dorcas motions for the bottle and drinks straight from the rim, taking several long pulls. She doesn’t even wince. 

“That’s my cue,” Remus says.

James rises too. “I’ll come with. I’m not really in the mood for vodka for breakfast.”

“Boo,” Dorcas calls. 

Gideon clinks his glass against the bottle in Dorcas’ grip. They share an uneasy look, dumbfounded by their unexpected alliance. 

“Hand it over,” Marlene calls, reaching for the bottle. Dorcas relinquishes it with a laugh. 

Frank snorts and produces a flask from his pyjama bottoms. Remus blinks, there are no pockets. 

“Do you alway have that on you?” James asks. Frank nods sagely and unscrews the cap. 

–

Remus and James walk the couple blocks back to his flat in silence. Teddy is babbling happily, tugging at Remus' collar and pointing at anything that moves. Remus murmurs random syllables into the baby’s ear, trying and failing not to devolve into baby talk in front of James. Luckily, James appears to be far off, eyes drifting from passersby to passersby.

“What are you thinking?”

Jame blinks back into focus. “I’m thinking you’re right.”

“Right?” 

Teddy munches on Remus’ collar happily. 

“About Sirius.”

Remus hums. 

“Why bother keeping it a secret if you’re going to have it splashed across a magazine?”

Remus shrugs. “We don’t know him that well.” 

An echo of James’ earlier sentiment. James crooks a brow, unimpressed. 

“You knew.”

Remus startles. “What?”

“You knew about his family. I can tell. You weren’t surprised.”

Remus rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yah."

James throws his hands up. “How long?”

“Since that first night.”

“Jesus,” James breathes. 

Remus scrambles to correct whatever assumptions James is forming. “He didn’t tell me. I guessed.”

James puffs out a breath, lost in his thoughts once again. Remus looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, trying to gage his reaction. 

“He didn’t want anyone to know.”

James quirks a brow.

“I told you it doesn’t make sense.”

“We’re missing something,” James says, with a glint in his eye. Remus isn’t sure how to feel about that look. It was the type of look that predated their Henley misadventures, the good and the bad. 

“I think you’re right.”

There’s silence for a few moments as Remus goes to unlock the flat. James leans against the door jam, eyes boring into Remus back. He makes a concerted effort to focus on the key in the lock, wary of whatever is about to come out of James’ mouth.

“You should talk to him.”

Remus stills. “Why me?”

James raises an eyebrow and keeps silent. 

Remus huffs. “Yah, okay.”

–

Sirius spends the three days after the magazine comes out getting unforgivingly drunk in his flat. He plays his favourite records, when he can find them, and chain smokes between sips of bourbon. He scrambles eggs when his stomach protests and munches on toast when he begins to feel light headed. He sleeps on the couch because he hardly ever makes it to his bedroom and he throws up in the sink twice. 

On the fourth day there’s a knock. Sirius buries his nose in the couch cushions and groans, not confident in his ability to make it to the door. The knocking persists until finally Sirius crawls towards the door, unsteady even on his hands and knees, and uses the wall to clamber upright. 

Remus stares at him from his post in the hallway, arm poised to knock again. 

Sirius sways. “Hullo.”

Remus’s eyes him grimly. “Fucking hell, Sirius.”

Sirius gives him a lopsided smile. “You see the magazine?”

“I did. Nice picture.”

“Yah, real nice. Did you read all about my family? Quite the story innit?”

Sirius thinks Remus nods. He definitely sees motion.

“Can I come in?” Remus asks.

Sirius shakes his head. “You shouldn’t.”

He’s not sure why but the words ring true. 

“I need to use your phone.”

Sirius blinks and opens the door wider. “Alright, then.”

Remus steps into the flat and wrinkles his nose. Sirius isn’t quite sure what the flat looks like, but it can’t possibly be good. Remus finds the phone buried under the sofa cushions, receiver off the hook. He dials a number with shaking fingers. Sirius’ mind is too cloudy to hear what Remus murmurs into the phone but he’s lucid enough to detect the urgency.

“I’m going to wait outside, okay?” Remus says gently, words soft. 

Sirius nods, eager to reassure him. Remsu shuts the door and Sirius hears shuffling. He looks through the peephole, Remus is pacing in front of the door. Some time later, after Sirius has sat down and let his head loll against the wall, the door opens. James looks down at him, smile feeble. 

“Hullo.” James stares at the flat briefly and then ducks outside again. Sirius hears Remus' voice drift through the open doorway and he smiles despite himself. 

When James steps back inside, he shuts the door softly behind him.

Sirius frowns. “Where’s Remus?”

“He had to go.”

Sirius scowls, the reaction abrupt and unintentional. He’s fairly sure he pouts at one point too. 

James shakes his head. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday.” Sirius frowns. “I think.”

James looks towards the narrow window. It’s dark. 

“Do you think you can stomach some toast?”

Sirius nods because he doesn’t want to disappoint him. Not when James is smiling at him, all soft words and coaxing smiles. James hands him a glass of water and watches him drink the whole thing. Then he makes him toast slathered in butter. 

He burns the first two slices rather badly, and by the time a plate is shoved into Sirius' tenuous grasp his eyelids have started to droop. He knows if he stood up the room would spin. Sirius focuses on eating the toast with a single minded determination, watching through bleary eyes as crumbs litter the plate.

“Bed?” James asks. Sirius realizes he’s standing as he blinks down at his bare feet. 

James guides him to the bedroom with an arm across the shoulders. Sirius tries to protest but his words come out garbled. James pulls the duvet over him, going so far as it to duck in the corners. He motions for Sirius to turn to his side, propping pillows against his back. 

“‘M not gonna throw up,” Sirius grumbles, burrowing into the pillows. James just nods, an attempt to pacify him, before continuing to prop Sirius up. 

Sirius grabs James’ wrist, halting his movements. “Thank you.” 

Whatever James might have said in response is lost to the encroaching darkness. 

–

When Sirius wakes there’s a relentless pounding at his temples and it's still dark out. There’s the heavy thump of the door slamming shut and voices drifting towards him from the hall. Remus and James again. Sirius groans, pressing his palms to his flushed face. 

“How is he?” Remus asks, voice subdued by the bedroom door.

Sirius perks up. It’s embarrassing. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” James says instead of answering.

Sirius curls into himself, pulling the duvet tight around his shoulders. 

“I just–” Whatever else Remus says is too faint for Sirius to hear. 

“Moony.” James is stern. Sirius has never heard him use that tone of voice before. 

Sirius pushes away from the mattress slowly, careful not to jar his head lest it should really split in two. Once upright he’s overcome with nausea and he moans; reaching the bathroom means bypassing James and Remus loitering in the hall. Luckily, neither of them bat an eyelash as Sirius makes a desperate lurch towards it. 

As Sirius retches into the toilet someone scoops his hair away from his face, hands gentle. Sirius groans pitifully against the porcelain.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Remus murmurs softly. 

“Moony,” James hisses. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“I’m fine,” Remus barks.

“You should go,” Sirius rasps, head still bent over the rim.

“No.”

“Remus,” Sirius says pathetically. Remus scowls down at him, though it eases when Sirius turns away to dry heave. 

“I’m not leaving him alone.”

Affection for Remus swells in him, helping to assuage the shame, though apparently not the nausea. Sirius heaves into the basin again. 

“You’re fucking impossible. I’m calling one of the others,” James says, sweeping out of the bathroom. 

“Tad dramatic that one,” Remus murmurs. Sirius chuckles weakly. 

Remus helps Sirius crawl back into bed, placing a glass of water at his bedside and combing his hair back from his face. 

–

When Sirius wakes up for the second time it’s finally light out. The flat is cold, the windows thrown open to the brisk London weather. It has the intended effect of getting rid of the pungent aroma of sweat and spoiled food. Someone, either Remus or James, has cleaned up some, getting rid of the food crusted dishes and empty alcohol bottles. The flat is quiet. 

Sirius chugs the water at his bedside, mouth grimy. He heaves himself out of bed and pushes open his bedroom door to find Gideon sprawled across the couch, flicking through Sirius’ collection of magazines. 

“Morning, mate.”

Sirius nods, finally awake enough to be self-conscious about the state of his flat and the events of the last few days. He wrings his hands and looks anywhere but at Gideon. 

“Remus?” He asks in lieu of anything else.

“Said he’d try and stop in tonight.”

“Better not,” Sirius mutters, head still tender. He’s not quite ready to face Remus, not after last night. Remus had made it quite clear how he felt about being confronted with Sirius’ indulgences. 

“You’re a right mess, aren’t you?”

Sirius stiffens. Gideon holds up the magazine, Sirius’ frozen stare looks out at him, accusing. 

“I mean I was there when Remus went off the rails and you make that look like a ladies tea party.”

Sirius crosses his arms, unsure where this conversation is going. It’s not like Gideon didn’t partake in his own share of indulgences, most of Sirius’ better nights from the tour involved Gideon in some shape or form. He was almost never far behind Sirius, either pouring him drinks or hoisting him out of hotel pools. 

Gideon snorts. “And Remus would still rather have you.”

Sirius freezes, heart thrumming.

“Look–” Gideon scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly weary. “I don’t like being the one to say it but I have a feeling no one else will. Remus’ sobriety is fragile. Really fragile.”

Sirius sneers. “Doing this out of the goodness of your heart, Gid?”

Gideon is unfazed, arching a brow. 

“He has a kid, Sirius. A _kid_.”

Sirius deflates, feeling foolish and spiteful. His head pounds. 

“He _needs_ to stay sober. I don’t think you realize how much sway you have with him.”

Sirius curls his arms around his midsection. “You’re wrong.”

“I don’t know why I bother,” Gideon sighs and sinks back into the sofa, picking up another magazine. 

–

Sirius yawns as he shuffles out of his bedroom. Even that much hurts. He unlocks the door without glancing at the peephole so he is wholly unprepared for the sight of Remus in a ratty t-shirt and low slung jeans. 

Sirius swallows. Remus blinks. Silence ensues. 

“How are you?” Remus asks finally. He looks nervous, toeing at the threshold, eyes downcast. 

“I’m fine,” Sirius says, “I’m sorry about the other night. Sorry you had to, you know–”

Remus’ eyes crinkle. “It’s alright. I had James with me and, you know, we’ve all been there.”

Sirius raises a dubious brow and Remus chuckles, shoulders easing. They stare at each other a touch too long.

Remus eyes sweep downwards once again. “Can I come in? I need to ask you about the article. I meant to the other night but–”

Sirius holds open the door. Remus steps inside and takes three quick strides to the kitchen. He hops on the kitchen counter, long legs dangling, a sliver of ankle between jeans and trainers. 

He clasps his hands together. “Why’d you do it?”

Sirius shrugs, hands slipping into his pockets and mouth slipping into a polite, bored smile. “It’s a good story.”

“It’s your life.”

“My parents don't deserve my secrecy.”

“What about your brother?”

Sirius clenches his fists. Silence reigns, stretching between them.

Remus studies Sirius slowly, gaze lingering. “You’re wearing your royal ascot smile.”

“My what?”

“The smile I imagine you wear to whatever fancy shindigs require that polite facade.”

“Fancy shindigs?” Sirius splutters. 

“Why are you lying to me?” Remus asks, squinting distrustfully, as if he can discern Sirius’ treachery in the lines of his face if only he looks close enough. 

“Sirius, I’m not trying to accuse you of anything. I’m just a little–” Remus sighs, “Why keep it a secret from the band if you’re going to use it for media fodder?”

Sirius reels; he was not prepared for an interrogation. His body is still sore from the beating it had taken over the last few days, tender and bruised on the inside and out. Remus leans back on his palms, lounging comfortably on the counter as if he’s just inquired about the weather. 

Sirius pastes on his royal ascot smile, turning it up a notch. Remus narrows his eyes. 

“I didn’t mean to tell that Skeeter woman anything. She had already figured it out.”

 _There,_ Sirius thinks smugly, _calm as can be._

“That they had abused you?”

Sirius blinks, he’s never heard anyone say it out loud. It paints Sirius’ misdeeds in a disheartening light. He thinks of Regulus’ words, _the nightmares, the anxiety, the constant looking over your shoulder_. 

“She knew I was the Black heir. Or had been once. She guessed about the rest.”

Remus frowns. “Why did you confirm it?”

Sirius pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly eager to lay down, for a little respite from Remus’ concerned probing. 

“I was being petty. I was high and I couldn’t think of any reason not to tell her.”

“I just don’t understand how you could–” Remus stops, carding his hands through his hair. “I want you to be able to tell your story however you see fit. It’s just–” 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers, stepping towards Remus. 

Remus smiles sadly. “The story is going to eclipse our album.”

Sirius cringes. “I didn’t mean to–”

“You never mean to.” 

Sirius reels back, hurt spilling across his face, tugging at his lips. “That’s not fair.”

“No, probably not,” Remus says, burying his head in his hands, shoulders stooped, “Sorry.”

Sirius steps towards him, palms braced on Remus’ shoulder blades. Remus looks up at him, shoulders expanding with a breath, no more than a sigh. Sirius stares at the freckles dotting his nose, the sweep of eyelashes against pale skin. He takes another step and stands in the space between Remus’ legs. 

Remus eyes flicker up and Sirius hands fall from his shoulders, skimming across denim clad thighs and then pausing, resting, waiting. 

“You’re lying to me,” Remus murmurs, his breath fawning across Sirius' cheek. 

“Yes,” Sirius says as he slants their mouths together. 

–

Sirius’ kisses are sloppy and brutal, almost dirty with the force of them. He crowds closer to the counter and skims his hands up Remus thighs, his stomach, his back. He buries his hands in Remus’ hair and tugs. He sucks at the junction of Remus’ neck and Remus groans. 

Sirius pulls back then, smug and flushed, and Remus almost groans again. He cups Sirius’ face roughly, dragging him forward, almost missing the sigh that escapes Sirius’ mouth as he presses their lips together once again. 

After, when Sirius has risen from his knees and Remus has licked into his mouth, after Remus has returned the favour and Sirius has whispered _fuck, yes, please, god, Remus, more please,_ they lie on the ghastly sofa with a throw to keep the chill at bay. Sirius cracks open the window and smiles around his cigarette, won’t stop smiling, can’t stop smiling until Remus steals his cigarette and replaces it with his mouth. 

After, when Sirius has dozed off curled up against Remus’ chest, Remus extricates himself to go to the loo. He laughs to himself when he spots the purpling bruises on his neck and chest, feeling all of sixteen again. Giddy and untarnished, eager for the next kiss and unable to think farther than that. 

Remus glances down and stills. The first drawer is pulled open, a smattering of white and blue pills spilling across its surface. His knees wobble. 

“Fuck,” He says, barely more than a whisper. He pulls at his hair and slams the drawer shut, taking a seat on the lid of the toilet. “Fuck.”

 _You stupid fucking twat_ , Remus thinks, then, _you stupid fucking sober twat_. 

When Remus leaves the bathroom, Sirius is sitting up, phone in hand. Remus blinks, he hadn’t heard it ring. Sirius's hair is matted, curling ridiculously around his ears. He’s laughing into the receiver but still manages to ogle Remus’ bare torso unabashedly. 

“It’s James.” Sirius rolls his eyes. “He wants to know if we want dinner.”

“Call him back,” Remus says, voice thin. 

Sirius stiffens, hanging up without a goodbye. He stares up at Remus, expression crumpling, mouth moving soundlessly. An incredulous, choked laugh is wrenched from his throat. 

“No,” Sirius says finally, hands in his hair. “No, you can’t–”

“I’m sorry–”

Sirius stands and reaches for his jeans. His fingers shake where they clutch the denim and he avoids Remus’ eye as he slings them over his hips. 

“Sirius–” Remus pleads, “I can’t be with someone who–”

“I think you should go,” Sirius bites out, a synthetic curl of his lips. 

Remus nods, swallowing heavily. Sirius hasn’t bothered to do up his jeans and Remus can see the bruise he had sucked into his hip bone, stark against the pale skin. He flushes with shame, heat licking a pathway up his neck, past the matching bruises on his own skin. 


	12. Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta Scarlett_Lucian

**_April 7th, 1982_ **

The park is empty, as it often is on weekday afternoons, devoid of children whose parents keep normal hours. He’s wearing his reading glasses and a muted green jumper in an attempt to remain inconspicuous. So far it’s done the trick, rendering him virtually indistinguishable from any one of the many erudite university students populating the city. Remus had needed out of his flat for a few hours, restless and bored despite Teddy’s presence, so he’d called up James. 

“Stop it,” Remus drawls, cradling his styrofoam cup closer. James stares at Remus over the rim of his sunglasses, unimpressed. 

“Call him,” James says, lowering his voice menacingly. The effect is somewhat ruined by Teddy sitting in his lap, making grabby hands at his drink. Not that the poor kid can be blamed since James has ordered some violent pink concoction, eye-catching even in Remus’ peripheral. 

“He’s not answering,” Remus mumbles, turning his face up to the meager sunlight. 

James huffs and slouches against the bench, tight lipped. Remus knows that James, like him, is wracked with worry and has been ever since Remus showed up on his doorstep with his shirt on backwards and one sock missing, the imprint of Sirius’ hands still pressed into his skin. 

Remus has called Sirius dozens of times since that night, having thumbed the string of numbers into plastic keys so many times he could recite them in his sleep. No answer. He wasn’t the only one either, no one had been capable of reaching Sirius in weeks. 

“You think he’s alright?” James asks quietly, sticking his tongue out at Teddy, who squeals in delight and draws the attention of everyone within a three block radius. 

“God, I hope so.”

James slaps him upside the head, hard enough to rattle his skull. “This is your fucking fault.” 

“I know,” Remus says miserably. 

James slaps him upside the head again. Remus yelps and bats his hands away, trying to defend himself against James’ limp wristed assault. Teddy laughs uproariously at that, clapping his pudgy hands together. 

“Traitor,” Remus whispers to the baby. Teddy smiles, slapping a sticky palm to Remus’ forehead and succumbing to peals of laughter. 

James snorts. “Good boy, Teddy.”

–

Sirius giggles into his palm, Finn’s arm is warm around his shoulders as they navigate the sun soaked cobble stones. Sirius can’t remember why he’s laughing, but something about this situation is hilarious to him. Greece had seemed like a good idea at the time. Sirius squints into the sun; it was a long way away from London’s grey toned city blocks at least. 

He had been on holiday to Greece with his parents as a child; it was one of the only holidays he remembered enjoying. Free from their parents' prying eyes, he and Regulus had had free reign of the villa, disappearing for hours among the white sand beaches and terraces, stealing wine off tables and hiding from their mother when she would come calling. Back then, Sirius had still had faith that he would emerge from that house unscathed, a belief born of stubbornness and sheer desperation. Sirius snorts, his former naivety grating at him. 

Finn turns to him then, winking and disappearing behind squat white storefronts. Sirius leans against the nearest building, wiping the sweat from his brow, eager to return to the hotel. That’s where he had met Finn, or more specifically Thorfinn Rowle, an expat surreptitiously living off his parents dwindling fortune. Weeks ago Finn had dropped into the beach chair beside Sirius, glanced at his dwindling drink and offered to fetch him a refreshment. Sirius had smirked, even as he marvelled at the other man’s boldness. 

He had spent the next several weeks banishing all thought of slender fingers and freckles from his mind. Finn helped with that. He was broad chested, with a wolfish grin and a mop of blonde curls. He laughed too loud, often at things Sirius could not muster up any enthusiasm for, and could not sit still any longer than Sirius could. He was the antithesis of Remus’ subdued smiles and flickering gazes. 

Sirius startles as Finn, almost as if summoned by his thoughts, materializes in front of him. Finn surreptitiously holds out his hand, a bottle of round, purple pills rests in the crook of his palm. Sirius grins, _one-twenty milligrams._

He slings an arm around Finn’s shoulder, gluing their sides together. “Let’s go to the beach.” 

–

Remus scans the room, listening with one ear as Albus Dumbledore, CEO of Phoenix Records, extols the virtues of one of his newest musicians. Remus’ polite attempts to excuse himself from the conversation have failed miserably, Dumbledore seemingly immune to all social niceties or awkward pauses. 

James appears at his elbow, several long minutes later, and pleads for Remus’ presence with exaggerated urgency. Remus throws an apologetic smile over his shoulder. Dumbledore doesn’t notice, having already ensnared some unsuspecting bystander into a one-sided debate about the merits of the last T. Rex album. 

“Where have you been?” Remus hisses. 

James leers. 

“Nevermind, I don’t want to know.”

They join Gideon, Marlene and Frank huddled together in a corner of the room, low ball glasses in hand. Lily saddles up to them, hair in disarray and lipstick smudged, irrefutably answering the question as to where James had been. 

“Where’s Dorcas?” Remus asks. 

Marlene tilts her head towards a cluster of Phoenix Record executives, Dorcas at the centre. Dorcas leans forwards then, crooking her finger conspiratorially at a man with thinning red hair. Remus raises his brows, nonplussed. They all watch as Dorcas excuses herself, smile slipping from her face. She gives them a questioning look as swipes Marlene’s drink from her grasp and takes a hearty gulp. 

“I didn’t know your face did that,” Gideon says dryly. 

“What?” Dorcas asks, already reaching for someone’s else’s drink. 

Gideon waves at her. “Smiled like that.”

“Only with good cause and liberal amounts of alcohol.”

Remus stares intently at the floor. Their album release party is teeming with celebrities and executive members of Phoenix Records, all eager to congratulate them on their imminent success. The album is set to release tomorrow and it has already garnered praise from music critics. Not to mention “Do You Regret That Now?” was charting, drawing praise and attention from tabloids. 

No one had stopped discussing Skeeter’s article; it was in every loaded pitying look the band received. Remus could see it in their eyes, _way to hand your band over to an outsider._ Thing was, Remus didn’t much care, not without Sirius here to tease long-sufferingly. Their album was better for Sirius’ involvement, there was no denying it, and Remus had a hard time regretting that. 

The band’s personal feelings aside, it was acting as effective free promotion for their album. Sirius’ tragic backstory was included in every article about their album release, still without comment from the Black Family. If nothing else, people would purchase their album for a glimpse into the tortured soul of the disgraced Black Family heir. 

“Has anyone heard from our lovely lead singer?” Frank asks.

Marlene coughs. 

Frank stumbles. “Uh, other lead singer.”

Remus snorts, dragging his gaze away from the floor. James had artfully crafted an excuse for Sirius’ absence from the party, weaving a story about a contagious faux illness. His rather vivid description had even made Remus a little nauseous. 

“Nothing, yet.” James says, pulling Lily close. 

“He’ll be back.” Dorcas is firm, if a little more glassy eyed now. 

“Tour rehearsals start in a few weeks.”

Remus returns his gaze to his shoes, taking three breaths in quick succession and white knuckling his glass of ginger ale. He thinks of how ironic it is that the one person who could act as balm to his nerves is also the only person more ill equipped to deal with a party than he is. 

–

Sirius’ drink is lukewarm, water beading on the glass. His head lolls against the patio chair, gazing out towards the sea, mouth filled with cotton. He flinches as glass shatters behind him, taking a shaky sip from his glass and ignoring Finn’s grunt as he slams the door shut behind him. 

The breeze ruffles his hair and sweat pools in his belly button. Sirius runs a finger through the water ring on the table, tracing patterns aimlessly as his eyelids droop. When he wakes, the sun has set and his skin, reddened from the sun, prickles with goose bumps. He clambers off the chair and heads inside, staring at the rubble of his hotel room. 

The floor under Sirius’ feet shudders and sways. He blinks and sees the parlour of his family home, upturned chairs and books tumbling from shelves. He sees the glint of his mother’s wedding ring flecked in blood, china shattering against the wood paneling beside his head and fluttering fingers plucking glass from the carpet. A laugh bursts out of him, watery and strained, echoing eerily in the humid air. He sees Regulus' small hand gripping his wrist, red eyes blinking up at him. 

Another bubbling hysterical laugh tumbles out of his mouth. He can’t stop. He laughs in great gulps, throat tight and chest heaving. He presses the heels of his hands to his forehead, his cheeks, his eyes. They come away tear stained. 

He’s crying, he thinks dumbly, awash in confusion even as great hiccuping sobs are torn from his throat.

–

Remus slides past a waitress, mumbling an apology, as he makes a beeline for the corner booth. Moody is already there, nursing a half full cup of coffee and thumbing at a ratty copy of some spy novel. Remus nods at him as he slides into the booth.

“Sorry I’m late,” Remus says. Moody holds up a finger, turning the page swiftly. 

Remus snorts and flags down the waitress. It’s always the same girl, Amelia. She waves at him, hurrying behind the counter for the coffee pot. She has softened towards Remus in the last few months, after he’d become a regular and demonstrated that despite his ratty jeans he could afford to tip. She wanders over and pours Remus a cup without prompting. Her hair is pink now; it reminds him of Dora. 

Moody closes the book and slides it across the table, gesturing for a refill. “What’s wrong?”

“I fucked up,” Remus says, nodding his thanks at Amelia. She doesn’t bat an eye. 

Moody raises one scarred eyebrow, waiting. Remus tells him the stories in dribbles, trying to piece together events and emotions without colouring the narrative. 

“Let me make sure I have this right,” Moody starts gruffly. 

Remus tenses, already slumping against the cheap upholstery in preparation for a dressing down. 

“You’ve been into this bloke for months, prior to breaking it off with your girl even. He’s shown interest in you on multiple occasions, which you have allegedly never returned. Then he releases a story about his family which derails your album release. This for some reason prompted you to fuck him.”

Remus feels cold. 

“Oh, and this occurred immediately _after_ he had gone on a three day bender. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Remus croaks. 

Moody heaves a sigh. “Frankly, I’m not convinced you know how to make a good decision.”

Remus opens his mouth and then thinks better of it. Moody nods approvingly and stews in silence, his one eye darting over Remus’ face as if judging his sincerity. They sit in silence for several minutes, long enough for Amelia to come by and take their orders.

“What did I tell you when you first came to me?”

Remus mumbles. 

“What was that?”

“Stay away from–”

“Stay away from people who put your sobriety at risk!” Moody slams a fist down on the table, jostling their cups and sending coffee over the rims. 

“Look, I feel for this bloke, I do, you’ve been a right dick to him. You’re being unfair to him, really. You have the benefit of being sober, which means you can be a little more clear headed about this whole thing.”

Amelia places a wad of napkins on the table and refills their mugs. Moody smiles at her, a strained tight lipped thing he reserved for people other than Remus. Remus was solely treated to raised brows and mulish frowns. For good reason, Remus muses, thinking of the way Moody’s usual impenetrable expression had withered during his story. 

“You held his hair back while he was sick and thought what? This man would be a great father figure for my child?”

Remus flinches, remembering the terror he had felt seeing Teddy in Sirius’ arms over the holidays. Sirius’ pupils blown wide and fingers jittery.

“You know as well as anyone that you can’t force someone to get sober.”

Remus nods miserably. Amelia places an omelette in front of him. There’s a mountain of potatoes on his plate and two extra pieces of toast. She pats his hand consonglingly. 

Moody huffs and digs into his own breakfast, apparently satisfied. “When does your tour start?”

Remus blanches and Moody puts down his knife and fork, as if worried he might be tempted to use them against Remus. 

“Here’s the thing–”

Moody takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Sirius is missing.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Lupin.”

–

Sirius touches the tender ring of bruised skin around his wrist. It’s already fading to a splotchy yellow and green. He peers over at Finn’s sleeping form, breaths coming out in a loud rattle. Sirius’ own breathing becomes uneven, dragging and sputtering uselessly. He goes to stand on the balcony, as if the fresh air is sufficient to cure his muddled mind. 

Finn is bathed in moonlight, sheets pooled around his waist. He’s beautiful, the peaks and valleys of his body taut from exercise and dark from long days spent strolling the coast. His nose leans to the left and his shoulders are red from the sun, but where the curl of his lips had excited Sirius weeks ago it now caused an unpleasant swooping in his gut. 

–

Remus dreams of Sirius behind glass, voice sultry and melodic, muffled by the soundproof recording booth. Remus pounds at the glass, fists ineffective, watching as Sirius devolves into pained hapless cries. He dreams of Sirius’ lopsided smile, two pointed teeth poking out, frozen and unmoving, warped by death. He dreams of Sirius’ mouthing his name as his eyes fade. 

Remus jolts awake, sheets glued to his back with sweat and fingers shaking where he clutches his pillow. He scrambles off the bed and towards the phone, dialing Sirius’ phone number. No answer. He calls James next, misdialing the number twice. 

“Remus Lupin ‘m gonna kill you,” Lily slurs sleepily. Remus winces, he forgot she was visiting. 

“What if he’s dead?” Remus asks, voice cracking. 

“Then you’ll be seeing him shortly,” Lily muttered. 

“Lils! What if he’s in a ditch somewhere, or a drug den, an alleyway–”

She sighs. Remus hears the rustling of sheets and James grumbling. 

“We’ve been over this, Moons.”

“I know but what if–”

“I’m coming over,” Lily says before the dial tone clicks. Remus stares at the phone for a beat. 

Remus is pacing in the front room when Lily knocks. She’s wearing her shirt backwards and her hair sits atop her head in a bun, wisps escaping haphazardly. She pushes into the flat and removes a phone book from her purse. 

“We’ll start with the hospitals and when it’s finally light out we’ll call everyone we know.” 

Remus is overwhelmed with gratitude, mouth parted to express as much when Lily waves him off. 

“Go make me a cuppa.”

Three hours and several dozen phone calls later, Remus is sprawled on the floor, despondent. James had brought over coffee when the sun had finally deigned to rise. He’s seated on the pilfered couch, making a list of locations they should check. Lily hangs up with Shacklebolt and shakes her head. 

Remus sits up. “There’s that producer he was seeing, before he joined the band–” 

“Remus–”

“He didn’t just disappear!” 

“No, he didn’t,” Lily says slowly, “he left.”

Remus crumples, scrubbing a hand over his face as guilt pricks at him. 

Lily combs her fingers through her hair, voice softening. “We’ve done everything we can. He doesn’t want to be found.”

She pads barefoot to the kitchen, intent on a snack. She has dark circles under her eyes. 

James crouches beside Remus, lowering his voice. “Got any other ideas?” 

“Just the one,” Remus murmurs. 

James claps him on the back and grins. 

–

Sirius has his nose buried in the crook of Finn’s shoulder, muffling laughter. Finn is in the midst of a story, arms thrown wide as they meander towards the hotel. It’s dark enough that they don’t worry about being pressed too close, Finn pinning him against the facade of their hotel with a heated glance. 

“Sirius,” a voice says, emerging from the shadows, cigarette smoke curling above him. 

Sirius stutters to a stop, eyes wide. 

“James,” Sirius breathes out, “What are you doing here?”

James flashes him a grin, peeling away from the wall and tucking his hands into heavy black jeans. “Tour rehearsals start next week.”

Finn pulls away from him then, assessing James with a sneer. Sirius steps away from him, curling a hand around his wrist in reassurance. 

“Right,” Sirius says, sheepish, “I’m coming home soon.”

James smiles pleasantly. “I think you should come home with me tomorrow.”

Sirius tempers his indignance with a more pressing question. “How did you find me?” 

It’s not as if Sirius had intentionally gone to great lengths to hide his whereabouts, but he hadn’t made any efforts to make his location known once he’d arrived. He had been emboldened by the anonymity, the temporary reprieve from disappointment and broken promises. 

James quirks a brow. “You used your brother’s credit card.”

Finn freezes behind him. Luckily, it’s too dark for them to see Sirius flush. He must have accidentally used the card he kept tucked at the bottom of his wallet, _Regulus Arcturus Black_ , scrawled across the plastic. He’d stolen it over a year ago, before his first album had been released. He’d never thrown it out and Regulus had never cancelled it or reported it stolen. 

“You contacted my brother?” Sirius asks incredulously. 

James stubs out his cigarette, eyes darting away. “He’s in the phone book.”

Sirius snorts. “Well, I guess that’s that,” 

Finn looms over him, an intimidation tactic which is lost on James. 

“I guess it is,” James says amiably, undeterred by Sirius’ sarcasm.

Finn steps closer, molding his front to Sirius’s back. Sirius smothers an eye roll, wondering if he should tell Finn that he’s worrying about the wrong band member. That the real threat comes in the form of the lithe, steel toed boot wearing, unassuming lead singer. That if Remus had emerged from those shadows, rumpled from the flight and sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck, Sirius might just have hopped on a flight without question.


End file.
